


A Thousand and One Nights

by waywardscenarios



Series: The Readerverse [1]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Post-Canon, Angst, Bokuto Koutarou is a Dork, Burnout Syndrome, Coming of Age, Editor!Hanamaki, Everyone's Pining Over Someone, F/M, Family Drama, Female Reader, First Love Gone Wrong, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Insecurity, M/M, Multi, Mutual Pining, Neighbours, Oikawa Tooru's Knee Injury, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Reader Enjoys A Good Beer, Reader has Daddy Issues, Reader-Insert, Romance, Self-Esteem Issues, Slice of Life, Slow Burn, Strangers to Lovers, Tags Contain Spoilers, Unrequited Love, betaed from chapter 17, did they bang, not you, pining in general, who knows - Freeform, writer!reader
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-18
Updated: 2018-08-18
Packaged: 2018-12-31 06:27:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 32
Words: 219,707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12126519
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/waywardscenarios/pseuds/waywardscenarios
Summary: Oikawa wants to run forward, to run away from the fantasies and ‘what if’s that made his Game Plan™ obsolete. He wants satisfaction, wants to be in a world he knows he can rule over.(Name) wants to stand still, to live in the moment without the responsibilities and guilt she cannot separate from. She wants to live for her, wants to be content in this world rather than in one made in her mind.Life forces him to stand still. Life forces her to barrel forward. Life makes two stories intertwine in ways they wish it didn’t.ORHow long does it take to fall in love? How long are you willing to wait?





	1. Victims of Circumstance

**Author's Note:**

> Oh look, my first story on AO3. Hopefully I’ve tagged everything properly. I’ve been toying with this for a while and have had this chapter written for weeks. Let’s hope this wasn’t for nothing. This is my first Haikyuu story so bear with me.

_ November, 2017 _

In most situations, Oikawa Tooru wouldn’t have minded being fussed over. He saw nothing wrong with being cared about, often enjoyed having some form of dotting attention on him. It made him feel important, at least in one sense of the word.

Currently, however, he would have preferred to be left alone.

“I could have taken a taxi home.”

The words were laced with disgruntlement as they left his mouth, filling the cabin of the car with a tense atmosphere. Oikawa’s arms were folded firmly over his chest, a pout gracing his features as he stared out to the road through the windshield. His companion in the driver’s seat scoffed at his complaint.

“You can barely hold yourself upright,” the man growled, “and if you didn’t want me to get you from the hospital you should consider changing your emergency contact.”

“You’re still so mean after all these years, aren’t you Iwa-chan?” Oikawa pouted, noticing the way his childhood friend tightened his grip on the steering wheel.

Iwaizumi didn’t reply, and from the frown adorning his face the brunet knew what he was thinking.

‘I’m not the only one who hasn’t changed.’

Instead of answering the mental jest, silence filled the car which was only broken by the steady click of the indicator and distant hum of rubber on asphalt. It was better that way, for the most part. Oikawa knew that if he continued to complain and rile up the shorter male then he’d be forced to listen to the inevitable lecture that he knew was coming.

So they stayed quiet, radio off, both mulling over their own problems for the remainder of the trip.

His knee throbbed softly under the bandages and brace given to him by the temp doctor. Oikawa refrained from wincing, shifting his weight back so that he could straighten his leg out in the cramped passenger seat. He had taken medication to help ease the pain, but that had been sometime around midday and there he was, several hours later and trapped in a tiny car where he couldn’t stretch out his slowly cramping muscles. He felt Iwaizaumi’s eyes momentarily look to him before they were redirected to the road.

‘The pain is just bearable,’ the little voice in the setter’s head argued, ‘just pretend you don’t feel it.’

It was bad advice, sure, but it was enough to force down his composure through the last ten minutes of traffic that lead the two men towards Oikawa’s apartment building.

Mejirodai was a complicated residential district to navigate, with similar high-rise apartment buildings dispersed around different school grounds. It was a hassle when Oikawa first moved there, and from the look on the spiky haired man’s face he wasn’t enjoying the repeating scenery and confusing layout of streets.

“I’m in that building there.”

Iwaizumi pulled on the side of the street, and it was only once the engine had turned off that Oikawa noted how truly palpable the atmosphere had become.

“Do you need help getting up to your apartment?” Iwaizumi’s gruff voice broke through the silence. The setter turned his head and their gazes met.

His knee throbbed.

 _Maybe_.

“I think I can manage.”

From the look on his face, Oikawa knew Iwaizumi didn’t believe him.

Iwaizumi sent him a glare, one that simply said _Stay put_. The driver’s side door opened, allowing the raven-haired man to exit the car with a strong thud. Oikawa sighed deeply.

There was the distant sound of the trunk opening. In the rear-view mirror, Oikawa noticed the wing spiker had slung his navy blue sports bag over his shoulder before he shut the boot once more. Faint footsteps penetrated the cabin of the car, and the sounds of the street flooded inwards as the back door opened, enabling the man to grab the grey crutches that rested across the backseat.

Oikawa shifted, opening his door with one hand while the other braced itself on the frame as he tried to move his bum leg out of the passenger seat. Iwaizumi’s hands twitched, ready to catch the man in front of him just in case.

The cars continued to rush by them. It did nothing to break through their silence. Iwaizumi though it strange, out of place; for once his best friend was being quiet without needing to be reprimanded.

Perhaps time apart did in fact change him, even if only a little.

Oikawa struggled. He couldn’t help but wince at the ongoing pain in his knee and the developing pinpricks of discomfort in his armpits. He took a few moments to steady himself before the car was locked and they were both heading up the path that lead into the building.

They made their way through the foyer, the setter greeting one of the neighbours he still didn’t know the name of. They had looked at him with a sympathetic smile once noticing his injury. He refrained from scoffing. Instead he smiled politely in return and stopped the closing elevator with the bottom of his crutch. The pair piled in and the brunet used his elbow to press the button to the fourteenth floor. The sudden lurch of the elevator made him wobble.

“This’s a new place, right?” Iwaizumi mused, readjusting the bag. Oikawa nodded.

“I moved in June. The landlord knows my university coach so rent’s cheap and it’s closer to campus. Pretty sure Bokuto and Kuroo live not too far away.” He cast a side glance at his companion, taking in his unperturbed expression.

Iwaizumi hummed. Nothing else.

And there Oikawa thought that he would have gotten that underlying jab. Maybe if he said it with a more obvious annoyance it would have worked.

When the elevator doors opened to reveal the setter’s floor, the former moved first, still clumsy with his crutches.

“You’ll get used to them eventually, there’s no rush” was what the temp had said. But there was a rush. Of course there was. Oikawa Tooru didn’t have time to slow down; if he did, he was never going to get where he needed to be.

“Keys?”

“Side pocket, where they always are Iwa-chan~”

Just as the setter pointed out his apartment, the door before his own opened. Both men turned their heads on instinct, looking at the man who had exited from the neighbouring door. The stranger shut it behind him, turning on his heel ready to leave before he looked up and faltered.

“Eh, Makki?”

The man stared at them, beady eyes wide with surprise at the unexpected meeting. “Oikawa, Iwaizumi-”

And then his gaze fell to the former’s knee, lingering there for a second before their gazes met again.

It had been almost two years since they had all – Mattsun included - had seen each other in person. Oikawa’s pride wouldn’t allow him to admit that he _really_ didn’t want his friends to find out about his injury in such a manner.

The setter saw the analysis flash in Makki’s eyes, could read the string of thoughts that whirred past the dark pools: this was a serious injury to his already bad knee one month out from the Intercollegiate, meaning that he could be out for a long, long time. Oikawa watched the question form then die on the other male’s lips.

_What happened?_

The unspoken words set off a flash of light, searing pain and the sound of squeaking shoes in his mind. There was a whistle, and then shadows cast over him-

He pushed down the thoughts as quickly as they came.

“I didn’t know you lived next door Makki,” Oikawa interjected, “and to think you haven’t greeted me like a _good_ neighbour.”

Iwaizumi rolled his eyes and somehow refrained himself from whacking the brunet with the bag. Makki, on the other hand, shrugged with a slight smirk. Whatever apprehension he previously wore faded away almost immediately.

“My writer lives here, she and I had to talk business today.” He raised his left hand to shake the briefcase he held, the muffle sound of shifting papers emanated from within. As he raised his hand, he caught sight of his wristwatch. “Shit, listen I’ve gotta get this in before my meeting. If you need anything then don’t be afraid to ask her,” he jutted his chin towards the door as he took long strides towards the elevator, “she’s stubborn but if you mention you’re a friend of mine then she’ll probably help you out.”

As he passed them he clapped his right hand lightly on his ex-captain’s shoulder, then punched Iwaizumi lightly in the chest. “Take it easy, the both of you.”

With that he was gone, his broad figure disappearing behind the closing doors of the elevator. In his final glimpse of their friend, Oikawa couldn’t help but notice his immediate physical changes.

Hanamaki had filled out in the year he had been absent from the group. He’d gotten a little taller, with shoulders that were squared off in the same way Mattsun’s were. The light brown hair had grown substantially – both setter and wing spiker found it strange to see the male with shaggier hair. And, unlike the other times they had seen each other at the Intercollegiate, Makki had been wearing a fitted black suit with a light blue button up.

He looked like a legitimate businessman – like an _actual_ functioning and productive member of society.

Hanamaki Takahiro had truly matured; something Oikawa could not come to terms with.

“At least once of us has changed since high school.” Mumbled Iwaizumi as he made his way over to the door his friend had gestured to not too long ago.

 _That_ was definitely backhanded.

Iwaizumi unlocked the door with ease, holding it open so the injured male could hobble into the genkan.

“ _His_ writer – I didn’t know Makki-Makki had interest in becoming an editor.” The brunet mused as the door shut behind him. Iwaizumi shrugged.

“He got offered some internship during second year and he ended up working with his current client part-time. Said he enjoyed it and apparently they offered him a job for when he graduated, so he decided to finish a year early.”

Oikawa looked back at him with a blank expression.

Was he really that out of the loop that he hadn’t known about Makki’s lucky break in future plans? What else did he not know? How much had happened while he was preoccupied?

Iwaizumi sighed softly, recognising the questions that briefly flashed across his best friend’s face. He glanced at him from the corner of his eye, pulling out a pair of indoor slippers from the nearby closet as he responded.

“Makki mentioned it to me before he graduated last year and I ended up reading her first book. S’good, apparently she's been on the radar of literary critics since high school. He was over the moon – easy publicity that makes for better sales, he said.”

Oikawa’s eye twitched. He felt his grip tighten on the crutches. It was all instinct, all involuntary, but his instincts had been heightened over his late teenage years to know, to sense when he was in the presence of _their_ kind.

Prodigies.

“Well you know what they say, any good book from a good author is the sign of a better editor~”

They stood stock-still, darkness surrounding them while the faint glow of light from the balcony door flowed towards them, down the hallway and bounced off the plain walls. Oikawa pivoted so he stood in the hall, both feet miraculously donning indoor slippers. The rubber covers of the crutches squeaked against the wooden floorboards.

Iwaizumi followed him in, one hand wrapped around the black strap of the duffel bag while his gaze trailed around the interior of the apartment. His gaze faltered on a few scattered photos from their childhood and high school years on the trophy case on the opposite wall. Iwaizumi refrained from smiling and instead trained his gaze back to the setter.

“Just drop the bag in there Iwa-chan.” Oikawa pointed to the door closest to the balcony. The latter nodded and slid the door open and placed the bag just inside, not bothering to linger any further.

He turned around and faced the brunet, who stood with his all-too familiar smile on adorning his handsome features. Iwaizumi frowned. “Did you want anything while you’re here? Something to drink?”

The wing spiker shook his head. “Did you wanna tell me what happened?”

Oikawa froze, grip tightening on the bars of his crutches as he watched Iwaizumi’s composure harden at his own question. He saw it again; the blinding lights of the Chuo University gymnasium, the way the blue and yellow ball fell towards the floor after their libero had saved it, the searing pain that shot out from his knee and spiralled not only down his calf but up his thigh too. And then there were shadows looming over him, concerned voices that rung out over the unimaginable pain his was in, and the concerned assessment from his coach and trainer informing not only him but both teams that maybe it was worse than a strained muscle or inflammation.

Iwaizumi frowned at the silence, calling out a few times in order to snap the other man from his haze. His eyes cleared themselves of their haze as he refocused his attention on his best friend. “Huh?”

“You never answered my question, Shittykawa. Are you alright or are you concussed as well as crippled?”

Oikawa wanted to frown at the name, wanted to smile because Iwaizumi was actually trying, but his thoughts couldn’t veer away from the moment that his season ended.

“I’ll be fine Iwa-chan, I can handle myself y’know~”

_I don’t need your pity right now._

The wing spiker faltered, just barely catching a glimpse of the sadness behind his usual charming facade. He balled his fists tightly, clicking his tongue almost inaudibly. Oikawa noticed immediately.

“Just...” Iwaizumi scratched at his hairline. “Make sure you let me know what’s happening with your results.” He conceded with a disgruntled sigh.

“Alright, alright, I will.”

Iwaizumi turned, casting one final look over his broad shoulder before he trudged back down the hall and out of the apartment entirely. Oikawa found himself back in a stifling silence, and sighed deeply once he was sure the former was definitely gone.

In the absence of the old Aoba Johsai ace, Oikawa crumbled in pain. The fire he had felt slowly flickering in the car had begun to rage not longer they encounter Makki The Editor and had only doubled in size in the drawn out flashback Iwaizumi had unintentionally sparked.

He needed to lie down. He needed to sleep.

Maybe he would wake up and _not_ be as broken as he was.

With some hassle, he managed to manoeuvre into his bedroom, knocking the bag away from his path towards his double bed. Oikawa didn’t bother turning on the light, considering the fact he was ready to sleep for an eternity.

He flopped back on to the soft mattress, right leg thrown up on to the bed alongside him while his left dangled precariously over the edge. The crutches clattered to the ground, knocking themselves to the far side of the night stand.

Iwaizumi meant well, and Oikawa knew that that had been the nicest his childhood friend had been in a very long time, especially considering the fact that ‘nice’ for the former tended to still have mean comments scattered amidst the concern. But he didn't need to be looked after in that moment; he just wanted to be  _alone_.

The medication had finally worn off to Oikawa’s dismay. The setter could feel his heartbeat in his knee, each side mimicking the way the chambers of his heart were pulsing in a steady rhythm.

Re-medicating was just a few metres away. The familiar packaging was peeking out of his bag from an open pocket.

Instead he lay on the bed, unmoving, eyes trained onto the blank white ceiling above him. The pain was bad, yes, but no amount of trauma to his knee could ever amount to the frustration and anger and disappointment he threw at himself.

He just hoped sleep would come soon.

 

* * *

 

The apartment had seen better days, of that Hanamaki was sure. Despite that, the reality was that his writer’s abode was still worse than when he had previously encountered it.

Though it always looked like a hurricane had come and overturned the furniture, the male could always spot the differences. Hanamaki's gaze swept over the lounge room as he turned the corner from the entrance, foot knocking against a pile of books that certainly was not there a week ago. In fact, there were dozens of newly formed book towers that had not been there before, all ranging in heights and precarious placements.

The light haired male glanced over to the bookshelf running on the wall adjacent to the kitchen. The shelves were stripped bare, save for the few hard covers that rested against the cold, dark wood.

The further in Makki walked, the more he noticed. The piles were in every free square of space, gathering the initial layers of dust from having not been touched in so long. On the surface, one would assume it was a strange reimaging of Jenga. Each book had been opened to a seemingly random spread of pages, and then bookmarked with another book that faced the same treatment again and again until the tower reached its peak. Each tower was slightly taller than the last, as if the occupant had become determined to best themselves.

It was almost amusing

Almost.

“(Surname), you alive?”

A distant groan echoed through the empty apartment, and he nodded in understanding.

“Just barely.” He determined, pulling his lips into a tight line.

He weaved through the cluttered mess of a room, long legs grazing unseen towers, forcing them to wobble ever so slightly as he passed them by.

When he finally reached the safety of the couch, a body had emerged from the opposite bedroom, one hand propped against the wall as a means to brace her.

Her free hand ran itself through her hair, revealing tired eyes and deep set circles that clung to her lower lids. (Name) definitely did not have a nice night.

“USB’s on the table, manuscript’s been saved in four different versions just in case one or two files don’t work.” She murmured, rubbing away whatever was left in the corners of her eyes. Makki followed her jutted chin and spotted another tower on top of the kotatsu, this time of lined notebooks, balancing both a laptop and a black USB on the top;

“Want a coffee?” He hummed, watching her take sluggish steps to the kitchen. “Are you planning on staying long?”

“We’ve got a lot to talk about (Name); the company really wants you to kick it into high gear.” He answered, her groan resonating through the air once more. “Was this all for the book?”

“Thesis research,” was the reply. The editor knew not to press on.

 Makki moved a thick stack of loose leaf papers on to the floor, the shifting just barely drowned out the sound of paper being crumpled in the palm of his hand. The note had been a common reminder that the editor had found ( ** _Fire Hanamaki, request new editor_** , like _that_ would ever happen). As he sunk into the rich, plush fabric of the three-seater, his mind found something else that had not been there a week before.

Aluminium cans were hidden in a small heap, barely covered by the shadows cast by the looming dark wood kotatsu that did not have its blanket. The mixture of colours signalled a plethora of different brands, and the uneven number of each brand told him that his writer hadn’t finished her supply. There were a dozen empty Kirin cans, gold lines decorating the top and bottom lips of the silver can; six crushed cans of red and yellow and white that displayed the words ‘Whiskey Highball’ in neat lettering; five blue and silver Chuhai displaying images of lemon and grapefruit and mikan; and three cans of Asahi.

In the midst of the debris, a small cardboard carton caught Hanamaki's main intrigue. He stooped down to retrieve in, taking in the lettering and warning labels plastered alongside the clear white and black packaging. His hands clenched around the package, deeper indentations appearing on the box. It was only then as he straightened up that he spotted the used ash-tray tucked up on to the top of the bookshelf.

“I thought you didn’t smoke?”

There was a lull in noise from the kitchen, the water long finished boiling.

“I don’t,” she answered, “but I needed a pick-me-up in the hundred page home stretch.”

 He hummed. “What was the beer for?”

“Motivation for pages 200 to 300.” The reply was punctuated with footsteps.

“You’re gonna need more than just a pick-me-up to get you through the rest of the series if you don’t quit now.” Hanamaki retorted, turning his head so that he could look at (Name) as she re-entered the lounge area. The (h/c) haired woman held a mug in her left hand, steam billowing above the ceramic lip before it dissipated into thin air. She shrugged and it into his grasp.

“Hm, maybe a trip into the Red Light would suffice.”

(Name) smirked as she plopped down beside her editor, throwing one arm across the back of the couch. It was sarcastic, of course, but it would have been false to claim that the thought hadn’t crossed her mind.

From the corner of eye, she spotted the deadpanned expression on the editor's face. His thin brows furrowed together and his lips pulled into a tight line.

Completely unamused.

There was a gleam in his eyes, a quick flash of a wordless threat that made her mind falter for a nanosecond. He squinted ever so slightly. His pupils shrunk. (Name) knew that look.

_Don’t make me get Mattsun to yell at you._

“I make no hard promises, but I am willing to try a little harder.” She conceded, throwing her legs up on top of the already cluttered table, the soles of her feet almost knocking over another pile of research she had compiled.

She watched Hanamaki relax in to the back of the sofa, keeping his eyes on her as he drank from his mug. “What did we need to discuss, boss?”

The man relocated his mug to the arm of the sofa for a moment, digging into the suitcase at his feet before retrieve a manila folder. (Name) took it from him, the weight catching her momentarily off guard.

“Sales finally gave me the figures the last quarter.” He explained retrieving his mug as (Name) began to rifle through the numerous spreadsheets. “It’s been consistent in sales across most of the country, but in the past month sales have increased in Osaka two fold.”

Her eyes scanned each page, flipping the sheets carefully as she continued to analyse. After the sales reports from different divisions, there were printed reviews from literary critics with their relative rankings; all overwhelmingly positive.

The work had been finished December last year and, despite the traditional year long editing and planning that most writer’s received, had received approval from the board to be published in March before her final year of university rolled around – just four months after she had initially submitted it to the then part-time greenhorn editor Hanamaki.

‘A Moth to Flame’ had steadily risen to acclaim within the Kodansha’s literary arsenal.

A fitting result for a promising novelist.

Not that she truly cared.

“We’re organising a fifth printing, keeping with the same amount as the initial run. It should be shipped out by the end of the month.” Hanamaki turned to her, and (Name) drew her gaze away to meet him. The aggravation that was once present had disappeared, and instead something else had surfaced within them.

Pride.

It made her queasy.

(Name) sniffed and looked away, continuing to leaf through the sheets in her lap. “Is that all you needed to tell me?”

And like that, the pride fled as quickly as it had come. His dark pupils flickered up to his right, and the writer just barely caught on to the micro movement.

“The Board has pretty high expectations for your next book from thanks to critical reception you’ve garnered so far. They want another March release which means we’re going to be working through the holidays again.” He explained, watching the woman intently. “I can have the revisions done by the end of the month-”

“Whatever needs to happen, I’ll make it happen.” (Name) interjected, keeping a blank expression on her features. Hanamaki closed his mouth, unsure, but nodded ever so slowly as he took in the words. His lack of a verbal response made her curious, and forced her to cast a glance at him.

“What?”

It was moments like this that (Name) was glad that she could read people as if they were simple sentences. Most people were not as adept in that skill. Most people weren’t concerned with it. It meant she could act accordingly, give them a response they wanted to hear even if she didn’t mean it and not have them figure out if she was telling the truth or not.

(Name) wasn’t, however, glad with the fact that Hanamaki teetered onto the strong side of observant.

His beady eyes bore into hers, and she remained still, unyielding, searching for answers. If he found them, it would all be over. She caught his lips parting and heard the brief whistling of his exhale before the light-haired male spoke.

“Are you okay with that?” The question had come like a bolt from the blue, striking her in the chest as she tensed slightly. Hanamaki's tone mixed with his stern expression demanded the truth, and from how the suddenly the editor had asked, (Name) almost answered as so.

‘No.’

She faltered. Hanamaki knew.

“Of course, why wouldn’t I be?” The words escaped her lips with an air of nonchalance, practiced to a tee. The words left a bitter aftertaste in her mouth; lying was easier than admitting the truth.

The air hung heavy around them as her editor stared at her, it scratched at her exposed skin, yearning to be noticed.

“I’m just making sure... No one would argue with letting you take a break for a year or so if you wanted, or even just postponing the release of this book to late next year or something.” He stated, shrugging his shoulders as to try and ease the situation. (Name) nodded.

“As long as the quality doesn’t drop in my works then I don’t need to take a break.” She answered. The editor's lip twitched, but he nodded again nonetheless. “Is there nothing else to discuss Hanamaki?”

“Nah, we’ve got a meeting later today.” The light brown haired male gestured for the pile of papers she still held in her hands, taking them in one of his larger hands. “I’ll probably get more information on sales goals and the possible options of publication but that’ll be overshadowing by this old thing,” he leaned over and picked up the USB, placing it inside his briefcase alongside the manila folder. As he locked the clasps, he downed the remnants of the liquid in his cup.

(Name) hummed and leant back in her chair. “You can just leave it there or something, m’gonna nap.”

“The least you could do is escort your dear editor out since, y’know, I came all this way from the main office-”

“In Bunkyo which is like a fifteen minute train trip from Mejirodai, you plebe.” (Name) rolled her eyes and stood up, stretching out her limbs while Hanamaki followed in suit. He glanced at her from his peripheral before quickly knocking her side with the corner of his briefcase. She hissed, giving him the signal to start walking.

(Name) followed, reluctantly, behind him, making a brief stop to the kitchen to drop the mug in the skin, before loitering behind him in the entrance. She flicked on the hallway light; the off-white colour immediately flooded the space around them. The faster he left the sooner she could rest.

“I’ll let you know when the first revisions are done, and make sure you get to the office on time when I do tell you.” Helectured, tapping on his shoes as he stood in the genkan. (Name) stood behind him, watching his broad back while she leaned against the pale wall. She saluted lazily with one arm, her shadow being cast by the yellow-white fluorescent light. “Aye aye captain, you know the way out-"

As the woman began to turn on her heel, the man had reached out to stop her. His long fingers wrapped around the circumference of her forearm, holding her from continuing her action. With a sudden jerk of his hand, he spun her body around two-thirds so that he good get one last look of her expression.

“You can talk to me if you need to, (Name).”

The light-haired male's voice was low, steady, and its tone made clear that in this moment he was more than her editor.

Hanamaki Takahiro had decided to become her friend.

The unfortunate paradox, however, was that she wasn’t ready for any more friendships.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” it was a non-committal answer, one that the editor had grown into familiarity with in their time working together.

He nodded as he let go of her, fingers squeezing the tense muscle underneath before he did so.

“M’sorry for waking you up... Try and get some sleep, yeah?”

And then he was gone, the barrier of the front door separating their bodies, leaving (Name) alone once more.

The writer rested her hand on the nearby sliding door of the closet, fingernails scraping against the panel.

She wasn’t sure how long she stood there, nor was she sure as to when she had ended up on the couch with the remnants of the beer she had hoarded away earlier that morning. All she was concerned about was how alone she felt, how much she wished she wasn’t inept at everything other than writing.

It was frustrating really; she saw no other word for it.

But the writing wasn’t that bad, it kept a roof over her head and a steady source of income in a time of financial trepidation for a millennial such as herself. She should be happy.

She scoffed.

The universe had made it very clear all those years ago that her existence and the concept of happiness never moulded perfectly together.

The sharp hiss of the tab filled her eardrums, her mouth salivating in anticipation for the bitter burn of the Chuhai. Lemon. For a brief moment, the drink filled the empty hole in her chest with something sweeter, something warmer than she was used to.

But good things were never meant to last, and the warmth from the beer drained away just as quickly as it came, taking with it a little more than she had hoped.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve planned since I want to make it as realistic while still making my Artistic Decisions™ to suit the Haikyuu universe and canon. Characters will be aged up, real-life time lines will be changed to suit the plot, Reader will have her own kind of life that isn't the usual ambiguous back story these types of inserts tend to have and I probably won't be running on a decent schedule because my time management skills are incredible in all the wrong ways. The tags will be updated as the story progresses to avoid possible spoilers and what-not. This is gonna be a long ride folks; I’ve currently planned out (maybe) 30 chapters that will be pretty lengthy so strap in!
> 
> If you want to read my other non-Haikyuu work that is as equally boring as this is, then head over to my tumblr waywardscenarios (creative, I know) – I write KPOP Reader Inserts on an irregular schedule (despite having a schedule).


	2. Signals in the Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Did that make him a bad person? Did delighting over a stranger’s supposed misery make him an asshole?
> 
> Yes, probably, it did.
> 
> But if he couldn’t be happy in this moment then no-one could.
> 
> Petty is as petty does. 
> 
> //
> 
> Yes, it was rude of her to ignore him; especially when he was so very intent on staring holes into her body, as if he had something to say, had something to prove.
> 
> Then again, there was no article in the lease she had signed that stated she had to Socialise with the other tenants.

_ November, 2017 _

Armageddon was near.

That was the only logical explanation for the situation at hand.

That was the only way Oikawa would willingly accept the information at hand.

The statement had only been released that day, barely even twelve hours after he himself had found out the results from his doctor.

He had been picked up by his personal trainer, knee still in pain and still with no desire to do anything about it. The anticipation that had settled inside his stomach was not of the good kind, and it swirled around viciously like a tornado, threatening to eject the bile within his stomach at a moment’s notice.

By the time the pair had arrived at the hospital, the national team’s manager had met them at the entrance, a worried expression plastered on his face which only made the creases of his forehead deepen. “Coach Nagakaichi wanted me to find out what was going on,” he explained the moment he saw Oikawa’s apprehension, “we all need to consider the upcoming season and plan for the worst case scenario.”

And, just like the Ryuujin Nippon statement had reiterated, the worst case had indeed come into fruition. And the reports that followed immediately after did nothing to calm his worries.

 

  _‘Less than ten months after the announcement of the Ryuujin Nippon Squad for the 2020 Summer Olympic Games, the team has already faced its first major injury to the line up. Star setter Oikawa Tooru sustained a torn ACL during a preliminary match against Hosei University for the upcoming All Japan Intercollegiate Volleyball Championship next month. The injury occurred mere months after the team’s appearance at the FIVB World League where the setter won the Best Setter and Best Server awards in Pool B._

_‘Oikawa will be undergoing a recommended reconstructive surgery, followed by 8-12 months of rehabilitation in order to recover. In an official statement released earlier today, Coach Nagakaichi Yuichi confirmed the team’s plans moving forward in the lead up to the 2020 Games._

> _**In light of Oikawa-san’s injury, we have decided to replace him as starting setter in the current Ryuujin Nippon line-up as a means of letting him recover without any more external stress. He will be guaranteed his starting position upon his full recovery and is anticipated to represent the country in his usual position from 2019 onwards. In this, we have selected Kageyama Tobio to stand in for Oikawa-san for as long as he needs. We will continue to support Oikawa-san in hopes of a speedy recovery and anticipate his return to the court soon, and we hope all of Japan will support Kageyama-san in fulfilling his new duties to the team.** _

_‘Kageyama Tobio is currently a second year at Chuo University and was scouted as a reserve player last year alongside fellow second year Hinata Shouyou. The duo have been in the eye of the league since their debut at the Spring Interhigh Nationals in 2012 during their first year of high school-’_

 

By that point in the article, Oikawa had launched his phone half way across the lounge room, watching as it passed through the sliding door of his bedroom and landed with a muted thud on what he hoped was his bed.

He shouldn’t have gotten angry at the announcement, especially when the most rational parts of his mind had warned him that this would be what had happened. It was logical, it made sense – but _god_ did it infuriate him.

 _Kageyama Tobio_.

Oikawa could practically _feel_ Iwaizumi’s gruff berating and all – “You’re an adult Trashykawa, why are you so in the shit about Kageyama after all these years?”

Because it’s the fucking _principle_ , is what he wanted to say.

Because life isn’t fair in the way it deals out talent, in the way it distributes praise, in the way it _fucks over the good guy_.

Because he wasn’t ready to step down from being The Best when he hadn’t proven himself enough.

Because nothing he did was ever _enough_.

And yes he was an adult now, with more wisdom in his head and more experience to boot. And yes he still had a guaranteed spot on the team once he had fully recovered. And yes a full recovery without complications was also guaranteed since the success rate of reconstructive surgery and rehabilitation was a solid 96% or whatever-

But none of that _mattered_ to him because it was stupid _Tobio-chan_ ; the same pain in his ass that reminded him of everything he wanted to forget and made it all the harder to grow up and-

Oikawa exhaled deeply, watching as his breath formed thick condensate as it slipped past his lips. He was cold, even in the thick of his sweatshirt. But the night air was helping with the pain more than his medication ever could, and if the sudden chilly breeze could keep his thoughts at bay then that was even better.

For now he would focus on the recovery, he decided that in the ride back to his apartment. His surgery was scheduled in two days, at the request of Coach Nagakaichi who had _lovingly_ pulled some strings so that he could start recovery by year’s end.

He sighed as he ran a hand through his hair, gripping at his roots once before his hand fell back against his side.

For a residential and educational ward, Bunkyo looked quite pretty at night. It wasn’t as glamorous as the skyline in Tokyo with its concrete buildings adorned with neon signs that illuminated their silhouettes, nor was it like Sendai and the way the countryside still swallowed the inklings of modern life. It was different in its own right, was pretty and attractive in ways that most places couldn’t be.

He clicked his tongue. Despite having lived in metropolitan Tokyo for what was coming close to four years, Oikawa never had the chance to admire how grand the capital actually was. Then again, he never had a reason to care all that much; the whirlwind that was life tended to keep him out of the house for whatever reason it found necessary.

He had everything planned out from the get-go, every move he needed to make and every pawn and piece ready to be played at the right moment. The Road to Success was one with limited scenery, maybe the occasional glimpse at an orange sky but nothing that made him want to hit the brakes.

And yet there he was, forcibly ejected from the hustle he had grown accustomed to and told to watch as the world continued to pass him by.

His thoughts were interrupted by the slide of a door on its tracks and the subtle hum of glass shaking almost violently. His head whipped to the left and he watched as a person stumbled out from the opening, immediately taking their place at the edge of the balcony.

Her.

Oikawa had been outside for most, if not all the afternoon, and from the time he had let his crutches clatter against the tile to the present moment, she had stormed in and out of her apartment at least twenty times.

Each entrance was more aggressive than the last, a little more desperate, and had a lot more alcohol than the previous.

Unnamed Writer was more partial to the lighter, sweeter drinks it appeared – after the fifth can of Chuhai that was obvious enough. She drank as with purpose, the occasional trickle escaped the clutches of her mouth and rolled down her chin, dropping onto the tile below her.

She was distressed. It was obvious. Obvious to _him_ , at least.

There was panic in her eyes, and subtle way the tips of her fingers would tighten their curl around the lip of the aluminium can was a dead giveaway of her anxiousness.

Whatever Makki was doing – or not doing- had slowly begun to take its toll over his writer.

And for some twisted reason, Oikawa considered _that_ a victory. A victory over a supposed genius who was falling apart at the seams.

Did that make him a bad person? Did delighting over a stranger’s supposed misery make him an asshole?

Yes, probably, it did.

But if he couldn’t be happy in this moment then _no-one_ could.

Petty is as petty does.

He kept his eyes on her, watching her every movement, every breath of air that dissipated into the air. If he was going to be stuck without anything to keep him entertained then _he_ was going to make the entertainment himself.

And if that meant discovering how she ticked, then so be it.

Unnamed Writer came in half hour intervals – at least Oikawa _thought_ they were half hour, his phone had been left on the floor of his bedroom and he wasn’t ready to hobble back inside to try and get it – and had a new can in her grasp. From the faint glow of the moonlight, Oikawa caught sight of a faint redness that crept up her neck and onto the apples of her cheeks.

She cracked her neck a lot, perhaps a lot of tension from keeping still from so long. And as quickly as the pop of her vertebrae resonated, she was gone, disappearing behind the glass door that was once again slammed shut. Through the geometric gaps in the neighbouring curtains, he got a glimpse of the shadow casted by the lounge room lights. Her body slumped forwards, resting on what he assumed to be her hand propped up onto the table in front of her.

And then he was left alone. Alone with nothing but the distant, taunting roar of the late night traffic well below the fourteenth floor of the building.

Oikawa cocked his head to the side before he turned back to face the skyline, the crown of his head resting against the cold concrete wall behind him.

 _That_ was the writer Maki had spoken so highly of?

He frowned. She had been more lacklustre than he had expected.

From what Iwa-chan had said, Oikawa was anticipating someone a little more _charismatic_ , maybe even that stereotypical eccentric writer shtick that all those dramas and mangas and movies tended to play on.

He hadn’t been anticipating someone who appeared to be as normal as she looked, nor did he expect someone who allegedly had a wide world of literary critics watching her.

And suddenly the pride he felt over her discomfort morphed into envy, and Oikawa couldn’t help the deep scowl that settled over his face.

Even if Unnamed Writer had slowly begun to fall apart behind the closed doors of her apartment, it was all for a good cause – for her career. If there was one thing Oikawa knew about succeeding in any career, it was that sacrifices were often made in order for future happiness; if that meant stressing for days at a time then it was worth it. The Road to Success was one less travelled because of that reason alone.

Anything was worth it; _everything_ was worth it, so long as it meant you could reap the rewards at the time of harvest.

And _that_ annoyed him, made him envious of her circumstances because even if she was falling apart she was still moving. Unnamed Writer had guaranteed success if she had been in the watchful eye of people for years, and if things went the way they did then she really had nothing to worry about.

She could keep moving, could keep growing in her craft because there wasn’t a risk in whatever she did. And the end of the day there was someone anticipating her every move, someone waiting for her to be the prodigy she was whereas he...

He had been replaced by the only person who could best him, the only person who could make his hard work go to waste and render him completely obsolete. At the end of the day, he could be subbed out at will and be taken out by something as trivial as a knee injury. 

In the world of professional sports there was no time for people to wait around; you peaked and remained or you were left behind in the dust.

And for Oikawa, he was learning this the hard way.

This wasn’t a roundabout, or a pit stop or recovery zone down his Road to Success. He had stalled, had broken down on the side of the highway entirely, being forced to watch everyone pass him by while he waited for something, anything, to help him.

But there wouldn’t be. He was alone in this. And that was the bitter pill he had to swallow.

 

* * *

 

She noticed him staring at her.

Even if her analytical skills weren’t already honed to a tee, weren’t embedded into the very essence of her DNA, she still would have noticed.

It wasn’t hard to tell.

(Name) could feel his gaze linger on her profile as she stood there, could feel it rove up and down her body as he examined her form. She kept her gave on the sky line in hopes that her neighbour would eventually look away.

He didn’t. Rather he continued to look at her, even as she retreated from the night air into the overbearing warmth of her apartment.

Yes, it was rude of her to ignore him; especially when he was so _very_ intent on staring holes into her body, as if he had something to say, had something to prove.

Then again, there was no article in the lease she had signed that stated she had to Socialise with the other tenants. She kept to herself, had done so for the three years she lived in that apartment. No one had complained about her privacy (read: hermit lifestyle) yet and she was sure that it would remain that way for as long as she remained in residency.

The woman tugged at the collar of her jumper as she lowered her body, tucking her leg underneath the kotatsu that had yet to move from its place at the centre of the lounge. The books that had been scattered around the day before were put neatly back on their shelves, with any scrap paper or spare notebook filed away in the spare spaces of the dark wood. The TV was on, only to act as a temporary speaker for her phone, which was playing some soft melody she could not properly put a name to.

She crushed the beer can she held in her dominant hand and threw it into the bin she had relocated to her current workspace, listening to the metal clang dully against the others that already lay within.

She trained her eyes to the blinding light of her laptop screen. It took her a moment to focus on the lines of typed description and dialogue in front of her – whether or not that was from the fatigue or the buzz from the liquor or genuine eye strain she was unsure, and frankly she didn’t care as much as others would.

Despite having finished the entire manuscript a little over 48 hours prior, the lines she was rereading weren’t familiar to her at all. The red lines and words that cut through the black text had stopped making sense a long, _long_ time ago. Maybe the exhaustion finally caught up to her.

With a reluctant groan, (Name) let her head fall back against the plush cushion of the sofa.

It would have been a lie to say that she had fully recovered from the last writing session, but it was equally untrue to say that this exhaustion was _solely from_ the last writing session. No, (Name) was smarter than that, was more honest. She knew what this was, even if she had never experienced it before.

This was what burning out felt like. And _fuck_ , it felt like complete hell.

(Name) had never considered burning out to be something possible for someone like her. Life was always propelling her forward to do this and that and, whether she liked it or not, the unrelenting onslaught of work and responsibility had given her a work ethic that proved to be unhealthy and left her alone at every corner. Something always had to be done and that was her life and that’s all she would ever –

She shook her head, feeling her head spin momentarily. She wanted – no, _needed_ – sleep, and in typical fashion, her mind would not let her.

Instead it brought her back to the stranger on the stranger on the neighbouring balcony, brought her back to the heat of his gaze and the pinpricks of fire that surged up and down her skin from his stare.

Hanamaki had mentioned him in their consultation early that morning.

It started out as a simple meeting concerning the book cover and layout, slowly transforming into him informing her of the current revisions she was to make for the book. And then, before she could leave, he made his request.

(“One of my old teammates from high school lives in the apartment next door. He’s always had a bad habit of working himself to the bone. When I ran into him he had fucked his knee up.” he explained, “He’s a stubborn piece of shit so he may not ask for help, but if he _willingly_ comes to you can’t be all (Name)-y and brush him off, yeah?”

“(Name)-y isn’t even an adjective, don’t try and make it a thing you dick.”

“Prove my point, why don’t you?”)

She agreed, more so out of guilt than her own goodwill. It was her first time seeing the editor concerned over something other than her book or her well-being or his not-a-boyfriend-but-totally-a-boyfriend best friend Matsukawa. It was a distraction. A much welcomed one if she was completely honest.

If being neighbourly meant that he would get off her back then that’s what it took.

But that could happen another night; maybe on a night where she hadn’t been mixing the buzz of caffeine and the buzz of alcohol in hopes of some positive chemical reaction. It could happen when she wasn’t delirious from stress and anxiety and the uncertainty of her burnt out state of mind.

In some regards, she was jealous of Balcony Stranger. Yes, an injury to an athlete acted as a death sentence, but at least he could _rest_. At the very least he didn’t have people breathing down his neck, waiting for him to come back with something more interesting, _more developed_ than the last. He could come back from an injury with a new image, a new lease on his career.

She was stuck writing things she no longer loved; the thing she loved most had turned into a chore and she couldn’t seem to escape the world she had gotten herself into. (Name) did the thing she had promised herself would never happened and yet there she was, all those years later with a feeling in the pit of her stomach that made her body sluggish and slow and –

Her body burned. Her skin was aflame.

It was hot. _Too hot._

She scrambled up from the kotatsu and onto the balcony for the nth time that night, letting the cool air rush around her body. (Name) had not noticed the sheer intensity of her body heat until she was pressed up against the cool concrete of the wall next to the door. The fabric of her jumper clung to her damp skin and she felt lightheaded. The kotatsu hadn’t been turned up that high, and she even in her most intoxicated of states she never overheated this badly. The winter air crashed into her, and it cleared the haze in her mind long enough to bring her some clarity.

Her mind was yelling at her to sleep, that she was NOT OKAY and that she really did NEED TO REST, but she could not find it in herself to resign to sleep. Even as the little voice in her head accosted her, (Name) clocked him from the corner of her eyes; still staring, unwavering, _very obviously_.

And in their brief moment of eye-contact-not-really-eye-contact she saw it.

Distress.

It was a strange cocktail of different types; 2 parts deer-in-headlights as he kept his gaze trained on her heaving form, 3 parts _help me please_.

The voice in her head died down, and instead it was replaced with Hanamaki’s voice. It echoed in the caverns of her mind, deep and full of concern for the male.

Instinctively she opened her mouth to speak, only to stop herself. His eyes were still on her. Instead of speaking, the words died in her throat ad she swallowed them with a deep gulp of air, hunching over so that her face was hidden and that Balcony Stranger couldn’t judge her any more than he probably already was.

She knew that look of distress well; she saw it every day for years during her high school days, and the image had yet to pass from her memory. And, if it was the same type that her peers experienced, then she couldn’t intervene. Not at this moment.

That wasn’t a willing cry for help – she of all people knew that. Not everyone is the type of person who accepts unprecedented help, not everyone appreciates a random act of kindness when it invades an emotional personal boundary.

And if he was as stubborn as Hanamaki made him out to be, then he was that same type of person as she was. So she refrained from intervening for now, kept to her decision of being neighbourly for when she wasn’t as inebriated or as incapacitated as she was in that moment. How much help could she be if she was giving advice amidst a fever?

When she finally calmed herself and straightened herself up again, she caught his gaze once more – just as stern as when she had first entered onto the balcony earlier that afternoon.

It was unpleasant in a few ways; (1) she didn’t particularly like people staring at her, (2) she wasn’t the type of person who had people staring at her, and (3) she didn’t like the way _he_ stared at her in particular.

There was something predatory about it, something off that (Name) couldn’t help but feel familiar with. It was as if he, too, was analysing her. He was trying to break her down into more consumable bites of information in the same way she did to the strangers she met on the street. If he was anything like her, then he would keep at it until he was ready to talk, until he was ready to verbalise his need for help to her.

She sighed deeply, looking back into the lounge of her apartment and making eye contact with the screen. (Name) looked away and folded her arms across her chest, pressing her back up against the wall in an attempt to sober up.

She had promised to be neighbourly, to be a little less (Name)-y for her dear editor. And even if she accepted through guilt, she was still a little human; still felt a little sympathy to the stranger staring her down.

So she would wait for a little while longer since she knew what it was like, knew what that inner turmoil of asking and abstaining from help felt like. It was better to wait with him than interrogate it out of him.

She owed Hanamaki that much.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Would you believe me if I said I was kind of disappointed with this chapter? I actually had a few parts of this written out in full, but piecing them together to form a coherent chapter was a ridiculous task. It's a little shorter than I wanted it to be, but if I dragged it out then it would make me dislike the chapter a little more. There's a lot of monologue in this and I'm sorry if that's not your thing; my next chapters should be much better, I promise.
> 
> ALSO: I'm tentatively going to announce that I will be updating at least once a month just because it gives me time to do my university research and write these chapters to a high standard. And, if the situation allows, I might be able to update twice a month depending on the writing progress. This month might be that month since Chapter 3 has a lot written, and its place in the plot is a little more important.
> 
> Thank you to everyone who commented and left some kudos, I'm glad that people are just as excited to read as I am to write this. Don't be afraid to let me know what you think! I'll see you in the next chapter :)


	3. Two Sides of the Same Coin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “¥1000 for your thoughts?”
> 
> The setter raised his eyebrow at her, manoeuvring his body so he was facing her at two thirds. “Why so steep?”
> 
> “You seem like a Caesar kind of guy.”
> 
> “I hate salad.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Boom, another update this month. Tags have changed slightly.
> 
> Also happy birthday to me for Wednesday. Consider this a celebratory chapter in honour of the fact I have been alive for 19 years.

_ November, 2017 _

Her phone sat on the opposite end of her apartment, vibrating loudly against the kotatsu in the lounge to signal another phone call.

It stopped.

Then it started.

Stopped.

Started.

And then there was silence once more.

Admittedly, it was childish of (Name) to ignore the _obviously important_ phone call and the _equally important_ conversation that was to be had within said call, but really she had no other choice but to avoid her _beloved_ editor.

November had passed her by much faster than she had anticipated, and the end of the month deadline for her alterations was approaching just as quickly. And despite her promise to Hanamaki that she would have everything revised and finalised before the December cut off, the reality could not have been farther from the truth. Graduation loomed around the corner and with her final exams nearing coupled with the stress of her thesis and attending lectures and tutorials, there hadn’t been time for her manuscript.

Except that was a lie; there was _always_ time for writing – at least there used to be if not for her lack of motivation and sudden disinterest in something she once held dear. For once during her time in tertiary education, the thought of exam blocks had never looked more appealing when compared to the career path she had carved out for herself.

The impending threat of ‘the future’ that once dangled just barely out of her reach, and the treat suspended in front of her was no longer appealing.

So she had put her career on what could loosely be considered the back-burner while she juggled the typical stresses of a fourth year university student for as long as she could will herself. And then, just as quickly as the month drew to a close, (Name) had found herself slumped over her manuscript after receiving a calendar reminder of her deadline.

If she didn’t get it done, then she would be up the creek without a paddle and with an angry editor right on her tail.

(Name) propped her chin up on her palm while her elbow rested on the edge of her writing desk, her swivel chair creaked under the shifting of her weight. Her finger tapped the down arrow on her keyboard, each tap eliciting a therapeutic click that followed the speed of her eyes as they scanned the pages. By the time she reached the end of her manuscript, she had counted at least 35 minor changes that still had to be made, and another 20 paragraphs that were still highlighted in bright yellow – a sign that the senior editor Hanamaki tended to turn to had stuck his nose where it didn’t belong.

(“It’s not long I don’t appreciate his opinion,” (Name) had explained in one meeting during the reviewal of her first book, “it’s just that his opinion is stupid and I really don’t care for it.”

“Hisakawa-san is my boss, (Name).” Was his argument.

“But _you’re_ my editor.” Was her disgruntled reply. She was forced to drop the topic after that.)

The writer stretched her back and arms, cracking her fingers and knuckles to relieve them of their tension.

It was going to be a long night.

(Name) tapped her hands against the desk.

But first, she thought, a well deserved break.

Slipper-clad feet padded across the wooden floor as she stalked down the hall from her study and turned into the kitchen. The apartment had returned to its usual state of calm, her phone no longer vibrating obnoxiously against the kotatsu.

Her fingers twitched, wanting to go see what she had missed (read: purposely ignored), but she stopped herself, forcing her body towards her fridge.

The cool air washed over her face and she frowned. The shelves were bare – barer than they normally were – and she had officially run out of beer. There were remnants of condiments and side dishes that wouldn’t be edible for even the laziest of writers. She shut the refrigerator and turned to her cupboards, inspecting each one on the tips of her toes in an attempt to see clearly. As expected, she had been running low on ready-to-make food for a while, and the stretch towards winter vacation had official cleaned out her reserves.

“Guess it’s time for a konbini run.” (Name) determined, clapping her hands together as the final cupboard door closed with a solid thud.

The woman scrambled around her apartment, donning something other than her pyjamas, and grabbed her keys and wallet. The phone could be left alone.

She pulled on her jacket as she stood in the barely lit genkan, pulling on a pair of worn out sneakers at the same time. When the laces were done she was off, smiling slightly at the family that joined her in the elevator when it stopped on the eighth floor, then again at the old lady in the lobby who had been stood near her mailbox.

Despite it only being the first month of the winter season, nights in Tokyo had dropped to the coldest temperatures the region had seen in the last decade. (Name) tugged the collar of her jacket up as the wind picked up around her. Shadowed bodies passed her by, a mix of business men and women returning home after a long day of work and teenagers who were still out enjoying life before winter break, brushing shoulders with her as she walked in the opposite direction of them. It was interesting to see how quickly the fashion changed along with the season; most people donned thicker jackets that hid their first layers of clothing. She ducked her head down into her collar when another gust of night air crashed into her body, seeping between the fibres of her clothes.

A part of her hoped that it would snow this winter – the Tokyo prefecture rarely got thick snowfall in these recent years. Another part of her wished it didn’t – she would rather not wake up to a snow-capped balcony that she would have to clean.

After another five minutes of walking the konbini appeared before her, the bright lights of its sign blending into the traffic lights of the intersection. She exhaled before stepping up from the sidewalk and into the store. The automatic doors of the konbini slid open; the cold air that once surrounded her was replaced immediately with comforting warmth.

“Good evening-”

(Name) looked up towards the intruding voice.

“Oh, (Surname)-sensei, you’re here.”

The woman raised her eyebrow questioningly at the teen behind the counter. She smiled sheepishly at her own surprise, light caramel hair pulled back into a tight ponytail that bobbed with the subtle movement of her body. (Name) merely nodded. “Haruko-chan.” The older of the two stooped down to pick up a red, plastic basket, and then disappeared between the aisles of the store.

There was scrambling from the front of the store, followed by the hurried slap of shoes as the employee sought to follow her. Her shoulders tensed as if bracing for a physical impact.

“I-(Surname)-sensei, how are you? It’s been weeks since you last came in...”

Yamashita Haruko had only been employed for the better half of six months, put on to five hour shift that ran from 6pm to 11pm due to the fact she had lived merely one apartment building over. Most people in Mejirodai didn’t bother to cast (Name) a second glance (no one important lived in Mejirodai, let alone Bunkyo), and yet to the writer’s utmost surprise one evening she was recognised by the caramel-haired high schooler. The former had learned to nod and stick to short, polite sentences when she felt the need to converse with the girl; anything longer and the perpetual _Please Notice Me Senpai_ look intensified three-fold.

 (Name) nodded in response, weaving through with ease. She placed a few packs of extra spicy ramen into her basket.

 “My, uh, my mother really liked the book... She told me to give you her thanks for that copy with the watercolour cover... It must have been very out of your way to do that for her birthday...”

Again, she didn’t reply verbally, instead choosing to nab a few packets of (flavour) chips from the next shelf over. She turned on her heel, still being followed by the teen as she neared the built in fridges.

“Um... Hanamaki-san was in a few days ago, he said to make sure you left with more than just beer the next time you came in s-so...” Haruko gulped mid-sentence. “There are new microwave ready meals that I had ordered in... J-Just for you to try since, well, it must be boring eating the same type of ramen over and over again.”

That made her falter, and (Name) felt something deep within her growl in annoyance at _Hanamaki_. She closed the door of the fridge slowly and swivelled her head to look at the employee, the latter’s eyes wide with anticipation at the sudden movement. “I appreciate both yours and Hanamaki’s concern, Haruko-chan, but I’m able to look after myself.”

Yamashita Haruko was a girl of nervous disposition, who only applied and received her current cashier job in order to gain experience with custom service. Despite knowing that, (Name) could not help but sound like a complete ass whenever she spoke to her. Even when it was a harmless sentence, even when the words were as light as feathers, she sounded like an ass. Maybe it was an age thing; university (adulthood, more like) made people cynical. It wasn’t intentional – she knew that and she hoped Haruko knew that too – but there was the nagging thought in the back of her mind that tended to reprimand her whenever she ran her mouth for longer than needed.

This was one of those times.

Anticipation faded away to disappointment, and (Name) frowned at her actions. “But if you ordered them for me then I guess I have to buy them, don’t I?”

And in an instant, the blinding light radiated from her face once more. “I-Yes! That would be good!”

The writer bought a week’s worth of food, knowing very well that she would have to stop by the konbini again before her vacation began. A minute later, she was standing in front of the register, Haruko scanning her items while she watched the digital numbers beep higher and higher up the numerical scale. The teen had been too amused to notice that the older woman had still been able to slip a few cans of beer into her basket before she went up to pay.

The store was still empty.

(Name) pulled the plastic bags into both hands after she pocketed her wallet post payment, avoiding the gaze of the cashier.

“Have a good night, (Surname)-sensei.” Haruko chimed, still glittering from their prolonged interaction.

Before she left, (Name) looked back to Haruko. “If you want to do something nice for me, Haruko-chan, don’t do it because Hanamaki told you to... He’ll take credit for the fact I’m eating regularly, and we both don’t need his ego to grow any bigger.”

And then she was gone, catching a glimpse of a humoured smile from the teenager over her shoulder before she all but disappeared behind the street corner and made her way back to her apartment.

When she did return, her face had grown numb, and her body had begun to crave the taste of the recently purchased Highballs. Another twenty minutes of unpacking and ensuring that her frozen meals could fit in the small freezer of her refrigerator followed, and soon (Name) found herself collapsed onto her sofa with phone and beer can in hand.

It seemed only fair to check in with Hanamaki, to make sure that he hadn’t died in the time she had ignored him.

**Hanamaki Takahiro:**

_(Surname) make sure you have the manuscript done. (6:32pm)_

_Deadline is in three days and I haven’t heard from you in a while. (6:34pm)_

_Let me know how it’s going. (6:35pm)_

_You would have normally sent me a response by now...just a little concerned. (8:00pm)_

_You alive? Even the middle finger emoji will do (Surname) (8:05pm)_

\- Hanamaki Takahiro. 33 missed calls-

(Name) sighed. She didn’t break 40 missed calls. She rubbed the back of her neck; that run to the konbini had been riskier than she originally anticipated. If she had broken 40 then Hanamaki would have stormed into her apartment, but considering the fact she had broke 30 he would only be considering it.

She frowned and type out a quick response.

_(10:45pm)_

The three bubbles appeared on Hanamaki's side of the screen, and in an instant (Name) had turned off her phone and lobbed it into her bedroom. She could only guess that his response would have said he was coming over to make sure she had written something – _anything_ – in the weeks he hadn’t seen her.

And if he came over then he would be bringing more stress she really didn’t need. So she did what any normal person would do.

She barricaded the front door shut with the kotatsu, angling it so it would jam the doorknob if it was pressed down and wedging it against the mats of the genkan so that if something pushed against the door, it wouldn’t swing open.

One could never be too safe when it came to an enraged Hanamaki Takahiro.

The (h/c) haired woman took a long, satisfied gulp of her beverage before her gaze settled on the room just adjacent the genkan.

She _should_ really finish up her manuscript.

But the trip to the konbini had taken so much effort in itself... “I can stay up tonight...” She murmured, turning around and deciding to bide her time on her balcony.

Returning to the cold was more welcoming that she had anticipated.

What she didn’t anticipate was the voice that called out to her as she settled against the balcony’s wall.

“You had a rough day too, huh?”

* * *

“You had a rough day too, huh?”

Fuck.

That wasn’t meant to be out loud.

_Why did he say that out loud?!_

The woman looked at her from the corner of her eyes, the lids slightly widened from the sudden instigation. They gauged him, holding their ground before flickering back towards the skyline.

“Every day’s a rough day.” She answered with finality, raising the familiar aluminium can to her lips. “It seems like you’ve had it worse.”

Oikawa caught the subtle dip in her gaze, the way it flittered down to his braced knee and then to the crutches that rested against the wall to his right. He shrugged, “you could say that.”

There was a lull in noise around them as they both pondered in silence. Oikawa shifted in his seat.

“¥1000 for your thoughts?”

The setter raised his eyebrow at her, manoeuvring his body so he was facing her at two thirds. “Why so steep?”

“You seem like a Caesar kind of guy.”

“I hate salad.”

“ _Emperor_ Caesar.” She deadpanned. Unnamed Writer still faced out towards the skyline. Oikawa caught the quirk of a smirk take life on her lips.

“I mean, I am an individual of high prestige – truly it would be a gift for a mere peasant like you to hear the golden truth of my thoughts vocalised.” Unnamed Writer rolled her eyes at the borderline sarcastic tone that laced his response.

“You know on second thought, you’re more like Caesar the monkey.”

“Oh; incredibly intelligent and capable of overthrowing the world if given the chance, then?”

“Detrimental to any and all forms of human life.”

Oikawa laughed, the rickety legs of the chair tapping against the tile underneath. Her smirk widened in what he registered as success. The brunet liked her humour; he found it interesting to have bantered over something slightly out of left field – a niche, meme humour the somehow understood. This is what he had envisioned of her from his first hearings of her and, if he was honest, he could slightly see why Makki had been so eager to work with her. If anything, Oikawa assumed that most people would have preferred this version of her.

The writer shifted her weight, mirroring the way he sat two-thirds towards her, except leaning her weight fully on the ledge of the balcony.

And it was then that he realised that her previous question wasn’t a mere joke or tacky icebreaker, but an offer. It was an offer to open up, to get something off his chest since she could _read him like a book_ , could _see_ the way it weight him down. Makki had told her something, and he didn’t _like_ the fact she seemed to know more about him than he did her.

In normal situations, Oikawa Tooru would have kept his guard up.

That’s what he did when Iwa-chan came to visit.

But something deep within him blocked the walls from rising around him.

“I’m out.”

That’s all he could say – all he _wanted_ to say.

Credit to her courage, she pressed further. “For a season or forever?”

He remained quiet. She nodded in what he believed to be understanding.

Out for as long as everyone saw fit.

He scoffed almost inaudibly to himself.

If only Iwaizumi had been this complacent with him.

\--

_The trek to university had been something he slowly grew accustomed to after moving further into the Bunkyo ward. And with the additional issue of the crutches, the familiarity of his morning route was no longer present. Travel was a hassle, movement in general was a hassle, and the people were a hassle._

_Word had travelled quickly around campus of his injury, starting from the Chuo VBC and spreading through gossip circles of bored university students. Throughout his full day of lectures and tutorials, different people had approached him to offer their support._

_He had smiled politely at them, gratitude hanging from the corner of his lips, and maintained it until well after he left campus. It was when, and only when, he reached the lobby of his apartment building that he let the facade drop._

_But only for a moment._

_Waiting for him outside of his front door was Iwaizumi, standing there arms folded and waiting expectantly for the brunet-haired setter. They moved together, no words exchanged until they had both entered the apartment, and Oikawa looked at the spiky-haired male curiously._

_“I don’t like being ignored, Crappykawa.” Iwaizumi growled, arms still folded_

_“Coach Nagakaichi told the press everything; I assumed you would be up-to-date with all that Iwa-chan.” The response was not received well, and the all too familiar frown on the tanned male’s face deepened even further. Oikawa felt himself sink into the fabric of the couch._

_“You don’t have to think about the possibility of being replaced – it doesn’t exist.” Iwaizumi began, still growling ever so slightly. “They’d be stupid to throw you off for an injury you can easily recover from.”_

_Oikawa clicked his tongue. “Just like it would be stupid to let the_ genius _Tobio-chan go-”_

_His sentence was interrupted by a cushion hitting him directly in the face. He reeled from the force of the throw._

_\--_

 “I don’t think you’ll have much to worry about.”

Oikawa was stirred out of his stupor, and his head whipped around to face the writer to his left.

“The way I see it, you and I are some of the lucky ones.”

The brunet felt his eye twitch at the way she grouped them together so easily. He didn’t miss the way her empty hand dragged its fingers across the wall’s coarse surface.

“We’ve been dreaming about this since we were kids, when the world was still at our fingertips and somehow, someway, we’ve made it to where we want to be. And you made it; you were playing professionally for, what, a full year before your injury?”

His head moved on its own accord, barely bobbing up and down. She caught the movement.

“That’s a year of doing the thing you _love_ – most people don’t get a year... Fuck, some people don’t even get a _day_. And as far as I’m concerned, people who put everything into achieving their dreams don’t just take failure lying down.”

“That’s not what I’m doing.” He frowned.

“Then why have you been sitting here on this balcony moping every night instead of doing something that would help your recovery?” Oikawa’s eyes widened. “That’s what I thought.”

Her words echoed his best friend’s speech, and his hands balled into fists and tightened even further, a slight sting starting from the palm of his hand and then spreading outwards. It was his only sign of discomfort.

\--

_“Is your brain connected to your knee or something, or did you get stupider from your time in university?”_

_Oikawa moved the cushion from his vision to see the anger wash over his childhood friend’s face._

_“You’re strong – with or without a team, with or without a busted knee – and the fact that you can’t get through to your thick head proves you’re a complete idiot. I did not watch you work yourself into a dumb knee brace and work your ass off for a volleyball recommendation to one of Japan’s best universities to let you sit around and not play._

_“Don’t act like you’re okay with this when you’re not. You’ll only have yourself to blame in the end.”_

_\--_

The little voice in his head spoke as he starred at her, incredulously. _Did she hear Iwa-chan when he said all of that!?_

The woman had turned to face him fully, no longer leaning on her side and instead having her lower back flushed against the wall, dominant hand still holding on to her beverage. In that same moment, Oikawa finally got a good look at something other than her profile, appreciating the bright lights that flooded out from her lounge room.

She was foreign. Not fully. Half, at most. Maybe a quarter. It was hard to tell from the general look of her face, but what gave her away were her eyes.

The (e/c) eyes sat comfortably in their sockets, framed by lids that moulded and formed a shape that Oikawa very rarely encountered. It was hard to place where she was from at a simple glance, so he pushed the inquiry behind him. Instead he focused on what he could see within the (e/c) pools. They were clear, sharp, and he could see everything reflected in her irises, even in the darkness of the night. He could see the ghost of her thoughts flash by, could see she was taking in every inch of his being and breaking him down into his bare parts.

A shiver shot up from the base of his spine.

He didn’t like that.

But above all else, he wanted to do the same.

“You’re the same, aren’t you?”

For the first time this evening, Oikawa watched as her lips morphed into something other than a smirk.

“You’ve chased a dream you’ve had for most, if not all, your life and now you’re running away from whatever you should be doing; standing out here, drink in hand, for hours on end watching the night sky flash by...”

Unnamed Writer opened her mouth, and Oikawa could see the words that she wanted to say just die on her lips.

 _It’s different_.

He refrained from sneering at the hypocrite.

“I guess it is different,” he began for her, “since no matter what happens there are people waiting for you. At the end of the day, as long as people are reading what you write, are ready to buy your work, you're fine. Even if it’s stressful you get to do what you want without repercussions. At least you’re happy with where you are as a whole, right?”

She didn’t reply. And Oikawa tilted his head to the side in amazement.

A genius, unhappy?

Simply unheard of.

Oikawa opened his mouth to press further, but she beat him to the buzzer.

“Don’t stay out too late, Limpy.” The (h/c) haired writer straightened herself from her slight slouch, letting a few vertebrae in her neck pop from the stretch. “With you being incapacitated, who knows when the government will swoop in to ape-nap a primate like yourself.”

Oikawa twitched at her evasion. _She’s running away from this too_...

A part of him wanted to trap her, wanted to keep at his assault as payback. For what, he wasn’t sure – maybe it was because she had seen right through him so easily, maybe it was because Tobio wasn’t there for him to be angry at, or maybe it was because this is exactly what he would have done earlier _if he could walk w i t h o u t crutches_.

But another part of him stopped himself. In the brief instance of eye contact, Oikawa saw a flash of something in her eyes. His mouth felt dry, his tongue too heavy and uncomfortable in the way it sat in his mouth.

He had to let her leave.

“If anything, Writer-chan,” he began, “I’ll keep my concerns with the prospect of alien abduction rather than with the Japanese government.”

They locked eyes once more that evening, and the setter watched her smirk return to her face.

“Good to know.”

With that she stalked into her apartment as quickly as she had first entered, the glass door clicking shut just as the dark curtains were drawn in front, obscuring whatever view she thought he had of her lounge.

And then he was alone, again, as he so often found himself these days.

Even as time ticked on, Oikawa saw the ghost of his reflection in her eyes, and the intermittent distress that had once been kept in check but slowly, slowly seeped out beyond her control.

It was all in the eyes. And they were so much like his own.

Oikawa’s mind wandered from the observation, and he couldn’t help but ponder the horrid question of how alike they actually were.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh look, they finally talked! The story can officially begin! Fun fact- this conversation was actually one of the first things I had ever written for ATAON so I'm glad that it's finally out of the drafts and in the real world.
> 
> If you don't get the Caesar jokes then here's a really quick explanation: Roman Emperor Julius Caesar was once kidnapped and held at ransom by his kidnappers. He thought so highly of himself that he made them double the cost of the ransom because He's Worth It. Its a play on that 'penny for your thoughts' saying. The monkey from the franchise reboot of the Planet of the Apes is named Caesar and he literally ruins humanity. Also Caesar salads are really fatty but taste so good despite the fact. This is essentially how I see Oikawa Tooru. 
> 
> (if you haven't guessed my humour is completely morphed by the fact im a history major at uni im so sorry)


	4. In Motion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How does one phrase something as blasé as ‘I don’t remember what it’s like to feel the emotion called Happiness’ delicately to the Average Person™?
> 
> //
> 
> A large hand clasped his shoulder. "She's a lot like you." Oikawa gagged. Makki's grip tightened.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Previous chapters have been edited - just a few changes to dialogue and sentence structure, nothing major. Minor tag changes, nothing too spoilery.

_ December, 2017 _

“Hisakawa-san just emailed, said he wanted you to revise Chapter 14 one more time before he gives his final approval.”

“Is Hisakawa-san in today?”

“He would have just gotten out of a meeting, why?”

“I’m gonna tell him to fuck off and leave my book alone.”

“(Surname).” Hanamaki frowned at her, glancing away from his desktop screen.

“Hanamaki.” She answered.

“Can you not try and get me fired?”

“How would _my_ telling Hisakawa to fuck off get _you_ fired?” The writer reclined a little further in the chair across the table. “If anything, it would result in me getting dropped.”

“They aren’t going to drop a high-selling client like you,” he replied, “but they would fire the editor who couldn’t handle said client properly; me.”

The (h/c)-haired woman shrugged. “Even if they did do that, they wouldn’t keep me. I’d just follow you to your next publisher.”

Hanamaki stopped typing and slowly turned his head to face the woman. A smile of endearment was worn on his face. “That was the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me, (Surname)...”

“Pull your head out of your ass, you and I both know I can’t tolerate any other editor that works under Hisakawa. At least you think for yourself.”

The editor sighed in dismay and returned to typing. So tsundere.

The pair had been locked in his office for all of the morning and the better half of the afternoon. It had been a standard revision meeting; confirming particular changes in the novel and outlining the next steps they were going to follow after the Christmas-New Year break.

“You should probably start looking over Chapter 14. The faster you do that, the faster you can spend your winter break relaxing.” Hanamaki noted, eyes locking with hers for a brief moment. (Name) nodded and closed her eyes, letting her head drop against the backing with a soft thud. “Don’t fall asleep on me, (Surname).”

“M’not.” She grumbled. “I’m revising.”

The typing stopped and the writer felt his gaze burn holes into her skin. She sighed and immediately began reciting the chapter word for word, line by line, eyes still shut and body still relaxed into the chair. She saw the words pass through her mind as she spoke, every bit of grammar and the intricacies of her description working in tandem with one another.

Hanamaki kicked her. (Name) groaned and let her eyes open wide.

“Don’t do that ever again; it sounds like you’re possessed.” The editor grumbled, returning to his work.

“Not my fault Hisakawa has made me read over a manuscript that is _perfectly_ fine a million times.”

“He enjoys being thorough-”

“He enjoys _being an ass_.”

Hanamaki sighed in defeat, hand shifting over the Bluetooth mouse. “I’ll send it through then, but don’t blame me if it comes back again with the same advice.”

(Name) didn’t reply, instead letting her head loll back to its first position and closing her eyes. The room was filled with the clacking of keys once more, neither person making any move to converse anymore.

She just needed the approval, and then she could go home and have the well deserved nap back at home.

Time ticked forward slowly, too slowly, and it was never a good thing when it did that. It meant (Name) had more time to spend in her mind, more time dwelling on things that weren’t on the higher end of Priorities™ she had to address.

And the only thing that stood out to her was the unexpected encounter with her new neighbour. Despite their continued run-ins on their respective balconies, no conversation was ever made. They simply stood in silence, mulling over the sounds of the world as time passed them both by. (Name) could handle that for the most part, but there were some moments where the silence would be fractured by the intrusion of their first talk.

_At least you’re happy..._

No, she wasn’t. And she didn’t want that.

It was now or never.

The (h/c) coloured woman sat upright in her chair. Hanamaki continued typing.

“Hey.”

Hanamaki hummed.

“You wanted to help, right?”

The sound of clacking keys stopped momentarily. She caught the thoughts flash through his eyes in the brief second of silence before the typing started once more. Unspoken questions passed him by before he understood what she was talking about. He nodded.

“Think you could set up a meeting for me?”

“With who?”

“The best psych you can find.”

The office fell silent, the editor’s long and slender fingers poised over the keyboard as he sat frozen. His head turned, and Hanamaki gaped with wide eyes at the writer, who all but leaned back into her chair with her usual unreadable expression. His eyebrows furrowed.

“You’re serious.”

“Unfortunately, yes.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Unfortunately, no.”

“Why?”

(Name) fell silent, unable to form a suitable answer.

It was one thing to admit needing help, what was left of her pride could handle that submission, but supplying the _why_ was enough to stump her. How does one phrase something as blasé as ‘I don’t remember what it’s like to feel the emotion called Happiness’ delicately to the Average Person™?

“You don’t think I need help?”

Yes (Name), deflect, that’s always the answer.

“I think there’s nothing wrong with needing help; it’s a matter of you _wanting_ it that concerns me a little.”

(Name) huffed almost inaudibly. Perhaps she had underestimated Hanamaki’s observation skills a little.

The editor sat there waiting, watching, the familiar dark eyes scanning her face for any signs of give. She readied herself to reply once more, only to falter at the way his eyes bore into her side.

He was waiting in anticipation for her to explain. And when he realised he wouldn’t get an answer he opted to change strategies.

“I thought you hated therapy.”

She scoffed. “I don’t hate it.” The writer folded her arms. “I prefer writing my feelings, not talking about them.”

He arched an eyebrow at her.

The sharp inhale of air past through her lips like a bullet, the slight whistling of the action caught him off guard. Her stare hardened, and her shoulders trembled slightly.

(Name) looked up, the usual stoic facade fading.

 “I’m not happy.” She held his gaze for longer than she had ever done before. “I’ve burned out.”

It was then that he saw it; the bitter sadness that had been hidden behind the (e/c) irises, the vulnerability that laced her words. Despite only having working together for two years, Hanamaki had never seen his writer so _weak_.

The statements echoed in his head; it can’t just be burnout.

And there, amidst her sombre expression, he caught sight of the woman who hid behind the walls he was so used to seeing. And he didn’t like what he saw.

Instead he nodded, kicking his foot out to lightly tap her shin. “I’ll see what I can do.” He murmured with a smile of reassurance on his face. (Name) straightened her back up, making sure whatever emotion she had let bleed out onto her face was immediately washed away.

“Did you hear from Hisakawa yet? Can I leave?”

Hanamaki tore his gaze away and returned his attention to his computer. A few clicks filled the atmosphere.

“Yeah, he approved. You can head back.”

The writer stretched her arms over her head as she stood up, a string of garbled words escaping her lips as she stretched her numbed limbs out.

“Call me when you set it up.” She reminded, throwing the strap of her bag over her shoulder. The writer draped the once discarded scarf around her neck once more, and the editor nodded in confirmation.

“Give me a day or two.” He responded, watching as she then exited the room with one final wave to the man behind her.

As the door shut and clicked into place, Makki tapped his finger against the left mouse button, eyes now glaring at the words on his screen.

 

> **From: hisawkawayutaro@XXXXXX**
> 
> **RE:** **Edited Draft**
> 
> _Good. Start working on the covers and sales plan for the book; have them to me before the year’s end. We might be able to have this out faster than her debut_.
> 
>  

* * *

 

They had agreed on bi-weekly sessions for the rest of December, then when January rolled in she could transition into fortnightly sessions depending on how hectic her life become.

The first session came and went, as did the second.

And by the time the second week of the month arrived (Name) wasn’t sure if therapy was what she really needed.

Her therapist was nice enough. Doctor Nakamura was a woman in her late thirties that seemed to show a genuine concern for the writer’s wellbeing. Hanamaki had done his research, and from the credentials and facts he’d given her it appeared that her woman was more than qualified, was more than just trusted to help.

Nakamura Michi, by all accounts, was deemed to be someone who could help.

But the sessions themselves weren’t.

Instead of addressing the problem of her burnout, the doctor spent each hour long session exploring the numerous bottles of emotions of her client had harboured over 22 years of life – something she didn’t necessarily want to do.

Whatever Hanamaki had briefed her with, it was clear that the burnout was ironically placed on the backburner.

(Name) only needed help with the burnout; she could deal with everything else that came before it.

“How was your family life growing up, (Surname)-san?”

Ah, it seemed that today, the therapist would be solving the mystery of Bottle #12.

“Typical.” The (h/c) woman responded.

“Both your parents were present in your life?”

(Name) paused. “You could say that.” Her tone was clipped; she didn’t like talking about home life. From the look on Doctor Nakamura’s face, it appeared she received the message loud and clear.

“Hanamaki-san said he was quite surprised to hear you wanted to contact me.” Doctor Nakamura hummed, pen tapping against her opened folded. “He said that you weren’t the type to talk about your feelings.”

She nodded. “I write about them, I don’t really see the point in therapy if I can write. Why bother verbalising something when I can make it sound better with the written prose?”

“Perhaps it would help you to truly garner and understanding on how you feel-”

“It was a rhetorical question Doc.”

“There are no such things as rhetorical questions in my office, (Surname)-san.”

The patient slumped in her seat, a subtle frown donned on her lips. It was in moments like this that (Name) couldn’t help but see bits of Hisakawa in her therapist. It made her queasy.

“What is it, then, that made you decide to seek help.”

Her frown deepened.

“I think – no, I _know_ I’ve burned out Doc... If I can’t feel the will to write, then how am I meant to feel _at all_?” She answered definitively. “I told Hanamaki I wanted help with my burnout, I want to be able to write again. I don’t need to go through every chapter of my life looking for answers. I already know what’s wrong with me, I just need... Need help.”

The last words died on her lips, faltering as she watched the doctor scribble down notes furiously on to her presumably blank page. Ah, progress... Perhaps too much progress.

“How long have you been writing, (Surname)-san?” Nakamura spoke after a while.

The woman thought for a mere moment. “For as long as I can remember.”

“And you’ve always liked writing.”

“Always.”

“And now?”

“Pretty apathetic really.” She crossed one leg over the other. “I’d rather be asleep or, y’know, dead.”

The therapist widened her eyes.

“Neo-Dadaistic humour Doc, no needed for worry.”

Her comment didn’t quell the concern.

“You said you knew you were suffering burnout syndrome... How did you figure that out?”

“Wrote a story about burnout syndrome a long time ago, guess the signs and symptoms decided to float around my brain as a reminder.” She shrugged. “I see things in perspectives, in different lenses. With all that it mind, it wasn’t a surprise that I’d eventually get a good look at myself from someone else.”

“And did you like what you saw?”

(Name) pinched the flesh in between her index finger and thumb. “I didn’t recognise her.”

Doctor Nakamura seemingly picked up on the inflection of her voice and decided to finally, _finally_ , put her equipment down. “Perhaps, then, after this next release you take a break?”

The words washed over her like a cold wave from a winter beach, chilling her down to the very bone. (Name) swore she shook from the impact, and soon she felt her head shaking side to side.

“I can’t slow down... The industry isn’t going to wait for me to fix whatever bullshit is going on in my head.”

Nakamura caught on to the way her body tensed, the subtle micro-movements of her eyes and the twitch of her fingers as the thoughts barrelled past her. She nodded to herself; it appeared Hanamaki had been right in his worrying.

“But you want help, yes?”

“Yes but-”

“Hanamaki-san had informed me that there is no definitive time limit on the books you agreed to publish, and surely it would be best for you to take a step back from it all. In fact, one of the best ways to recover from burnout syndrome is to remove you from the source of the stress. Unfortunately, in this case it means you must stop writing for a period of time.

“Trial it. Stop writing for your winter break, and when we meet again you can tell me how it went.” Nakamura decided, picking her items up once more to scribble down that session’s homework. “Your mind will thank you for letting it rest, even for a week I’m sure of it.”

(Name) felt her eye twitch. There was that stupid Hisakawa voice again. She grumbled in response, pretending to make a note of it on her phone.

“And when you do come back after the break,” Nakamura continued, “I want you to be ready to talk about everything.” (Name) tensed. “Burnout syndrome doesn’t magically arise from the abyss, (Surname)-san, sometimes it’s caused by minor things we cannot truly monitor. If we can figure out the cause, we can stop another episode from ever happening again.”

The writer didn’t reply, instead she slowly stood up and exited the therapist’s office. Nakamura glanced at the clock hung upon the wall adjacent to the door.

They ran 10 minutes over time.

 

* * *

 

“How was this one?” Hanamaki asked as he let the writer step out of the elevator first.

The male had taken it upon himself to escort her to and from every session she had scheduled with Doctor Nakamura. At first it had been thoughtful, now it was getting on her nerves ever so slightly.

They agreed to discuss her sessions when she had returned home, something about the familiar walls being more comforting than usual, and Hanamaki had begun to slowly but surely redefine the meaning ‘home’.

‘Home’ began initially in her lounge, then her genkan, to the outside of her front door, to the first break in repeating wallpaper in the hallway, and not it appeared to be the moment the elevator reached her floor.

She was sure that soon he would just start saying the trip back into Mejirodai counted as ‘home’.

**Note to self, fire Hanamaki.**

“She wants me to give up writing for a while... Said something about taking a break from the source of stress is the main way you recover from burnout.” (Name) answered, glancing at the male from the corner of her eye.

“And?” He pressed.

“I’m not going to write for the rest of the month, just to see how that goes. If I like it, I take a year off. If I don’t...” She shrugged, fishing her keys from her back. The writer barely clocked him nod in understanding.

“You’ve earned a break, no matter how short it s.”

The woman bit her tongue, refraining from making a snappy, sarcastic comment at her editor. Instead she hummed in acknowledgment, listening as she turned her key and let the lock click open. She pressed her shoulder firmly into the wood, forcing the heavy door open. "You gonna keep up your interrogation or am I able to sleep early for once in my life?” (Name) inquired, turning to look over her shoulder at the light haired male. He shook his head.

“I have other business to attend to, sadly. Maybe next week.”

“Or, y’know, maybe never.”

Hanamaki thwacked her arm softly with his briefcase, and she gasped sarcastically, faux pain on her face.

“Take it easy, yeah?” He called out to her as she retreated further into her genkan. “If I found out you’ve written something I’ll make sure Hisakawa gets final approval of the book as a whole.”

It was an empty threat, but (Name) still flipped him the bird as she toed off her shoes.

“Shut up Hanamaki.” And then the door was shut, and she heard the soft clacking of his dress shoes against the tiles travel away from her. She sighed, palm pressed against the cold wood panelling.

She needed a beer.

 

* * *

 

“I hate how nice you look in a suit Makki-Makki, it makes me feel like I don’t try hard enough~”

The editor rolled his eyes as he leant against the doorframe.

“I should be offended considering the Prince of Poor Taste is complimenting me,” Makki wore a teasing grin that brought out Oikawa’s pout.

“High school was a dark time for all of us; don’t act all high and mighty.”

Makki raised his hands in mock defeat, pushing himself to stand at his full height. Oikawa used one of his crutches to thwack him in the shin. The former hissed, but found the composure to laugh through the pain.

“You’re free tomorrow, yeah?”

“I was going to work on my thesis.”

“No you weren’t.”

“Yeah I wasn’t, I’ve got nothing better to do.”

“Good, we’re going out. Be ready by 7:30.”

Oikawa raised a brow at him.

“Makki if I have nothing to do tomorrow then there is no way I am getting up at any time before 10am.

“I know,” he confirmed, “but tomorrow is the second last day of the Intercollegiate and I figured you’d want to watch.”

The setter’s breath got caught in his throat, mouth slightly ajar as his mind reeled in thought.

The Intercollegiate was _almost over_.

The Intercollegiate _he_ was meant to play in one last time.

The thing he and the team had been focused on for months had completely slipped from his mind.

What were these pain killers doing to him?

Makki flicked him on the forehead as concern replaced the smug smirk he once wore. “You good? You went all space cadet on me.”

Oikawa swallowed the lump in his throat and nodded. “Fine,” his voice was squeaky, “I’ll be ready by 7:30.” It was a light hearted confirmation, but Makki nodded anyway. His smile reappeared on his face.

“Rest up then, yeah? You’re gonna need all the beauty sleep you can get if you’re okay with leaving that early.”

The setter clicked his tongue in faux contemplation, murmuring false numbers and equations as he calculated his total hours of sleep time. Makki wheezed out a laugh mixed in with a sigh and interrupted, wishing him a good night before heading back down the hall.

Oikawa closed the door once his friend reached the midpoint between his apartment and the elevator. He pressed his back against the cold wood, crutches clacking against the surface. A soft “fuck” escaped his lips, and he knew that was, indeed, as good as fucked.

 

* * *

 

Chuo had swept through their quarter-finals with ease, and the match itself had been shorter than he originally anticipated. Hiroshima University varied from year to year with the quality of their school’s team; and after careful consideration Oikawa determined that the match that year was not worth waking up at the ass crack of dawn to watch.

As he and Makki moved from one court to the next, his stomach dropped at the thought of the upcoming match.

Chuo versus Tsukuba.

Both institutions had a strong rivalry, a legacy of friendly competition that translated easily into his years in tertiary education. One could argue that said rivalry had only intensified, what with numerous Ryuujin Nippon first picks scattered across both teams.

Oikawa Tooru, setter; Kuroo Testurou, middle blocker; Bokuto Koutarou, wing spiker all from Chuo.

Ushijima Wakatoshi, the wing spiker fortifying Tsukuba.

Oikawa had gotten his years of long-awaited revenge on Ushiwaka in their second year, the same year that had all been noticed by their boy National coach. It was a story for the ages, a book end he so rightfully deserved as he stood proudly beside his new teammates.

The number of the court echoed in his head. It was the same number the semi-finals would be played on.

‘Ah,’ he thought cynically, ‘truly the universe works only to fuck me over.’

“Oi, I think I spotted your boys heading to the locker room.” Makki’s voice interjected over his thoughts, shoving his shoulder slightly as so to not knock him entirely off balance. Oikawa glanced around, barely catching sight of the familiar tracksuit jacket in navy blue trimmed with white.

“I’ll catch up with you, meet you at the court.” The words barrelled past his lips before he could stop him, and soon Oikawa was hobbling as quickly as he could around the corner to follow the Chuo students.

Makki reached out to grab the setter’s arm but stopped himself. His arm fell to his side. Oikawa needed to do this, this needed to happen.

Oikawa hung back a good few metres in order to not raise suspicion. He smiled politely at the people who gave him strange looks, making sure to not walking into any bins or vending machines as he navigated the surprisingly crowded hallways. He was getting closer to the designated locker rooms, he assumed, watching as the patterns on the walls grew more and more familiar.

His body moved on instinct, it appeared that the university had been given the one they had used last year as well.

The brunet listened for the shut of the door, and then hung back for another few minutes before he worked up the courage to knock. If he seemed too eager then the team would know something was wrong; this was all about timing and images, and Oikawa was great with both of those.

The locker room door swung open, and the roaring from inside the locker room grew louder and louder, now unobstructed. A tall figure blocked his view of the scene inside, and a familiar bed-headed male grinned down at him. “Oya? Look at what the cat dragged in.”

“Tetsu-chan, looking ugly as usual.” Oikawa shot back with a teasing look. “How was Hiroshima?”

“Manageable. How’s your knee holding up?”

“It’s doing fine.” Kuroo nodded and adjusted his grip on the door.

“Did you wanna come in? I bet the kids would want to hear what amazing speech their beloved captain came up with while he was slacking off in hospital.” The middle blocker grinned, his fingers drumming against the peeling lacquer.

“I didn’t hobble here to not see my boys.” Oikawa fired back, matching the grin on his co-captain’s face.

Kuroo swung the door open wider, enough to let the setter pass through the threshold, while his other hand cupped his mouth.

“Look alive kiddos! Someone’s come to visit!”

Kuroo barely finished his announcement when Oikawa felt the space between his shoulder blades clatter from the impact of a spiker’s palm against his skin.

“You actually made it! We all thought you were gonna bail on us!” The two-toned wing spiker commented, voice loud and ricocheting off the walls of the room.

“Just wanted to see how you lot were doing without your dear captain, I had a feeling Tetsu-chan was slacking as my replacement.”

 _Replacement_. The word stung more than he had originally thought it would.

Bokuto draped an arm around the taller male’s shoulders, barely bumping his right crutch. The wing spiker never did understand personal space.

“Got anything to say while we’re still here Cap? Coach wanted us out there early so you can’t ramble for that long.” Kuroo chided, making the rest of the team snort.

“You ramble once in a practice match...” Oikawa grumbled as he glanced around the room.

The mix of faces that looked upon him with such rapture and anticipation made his heart swell, but as he continued his sweeping glance, the sight of bright orange hair was caught in his peripheral. A sour taste entered his mouth, lingering on his tongue.

He didn’t lock eyes with the Freak Duo, but the brunet setter felt their gazes lock on to his slowly hunching form.

He cleared his throat, looking about the sea of players one last time.

“Crush them”.

And then he was hit with a chorus of confirmation, Bokuto slapping his back a little harder before he rejoined the rest of the team. With a tight lipped smile, Oikawa went to turn around, only to be stopped by Kuroo. The look in his eye asked if he was okay, the setter didn’t answer.

Kuroo let the captain walk away and closed the door silently behind him, apologetic and solemn.

And as Oikawa trekked to the court where he promised to meet Makki, he couldn’t help but want to leave.

He didn’t want to hear the result of the match; frankly he would rather die than watch it. No matter how badly it hurt him.

Oikawa knew how it would end.

It would end _without him_.

 

* * *

 

“So you and Mattsun _aren’t_ official yet?”

“No, we’re too busy.”

“That never stopped you two from banging in the club room.” A slight blush crept up the latter’s neck.

“Yeah, well, high school was a dark time for all of us.”

Oikawa leant back against the frame of his chair. They left the arena before the semi-finals match, and Makki had promised that dinner was on him. They had taken a taxi to a little ramen place not too far away from Piss Alley that his writer had recommended he take Mattsun to. At the mention of their old middle blocker, Oikawa had to intervene.

“You should just ask him out.” He tapped his finger against the tabletop. “He moved to Tokyo with you when you got your job, you live together, you haven’t actively seen anyone but each other – you’ve already got the basics, why not put a label on it?”

Makki sighed. “It’s not that easy, man... We’ve got something good the way we are. What happens if we mess it up?”

“The only way you’d mess it up is if you realised you didn’t like it in the butt, and you don’t seem to be complaining.”

Makki kicked the shin of his bad leg. Oikawa yelped.

Guess he deserved that one.

The conversation died just as their orders arrived, and the clattering of metal chopsticks and cups fell through the silence that they had slowly become engulfed in. The setter frowned, making a note not to intervene again unless Iwa-chan was present.

That brute always seemed to know what to say to the Hopeless Couple™. So he shifted gears, finally mustering up the courage to talk about something that had lingered in his mind.

“Your writer is interesting.”

The way Makki’s eyes widened and the curve of disbelief on his lips did not pass by Oikawa.

“You’ve talked to (Surname)?” He asked, words garbled by noodle.

“(Surname)?”

Makki swallowed his mouthful. “My – didn’t she introduce herself?”

“It wasn’t much of an introduction. We don’t really ‘talk’; she doesn’t have a lot to say most days. Seems... preoccupied.”

“She’s always like that... She doesn’t know when to hold and when to fold.” Makki sighed, rubbing his temples with his free hand. “I don’t blame her, really. We’ve been given a deadline to meet once winter vacation ends, and she’s gotta juggle therapy and her thesis.”

What was that first thing? “Isn’t working her to the bone counterproductive?”

Makki shook his head.

“She already writes non-stop for the most part, if anything it’s a part of her process. Most times she only needs one or two revisions of a manuscript before everyone’s satisfied. I’d argue that her first versions are her best, but they won’t sell as well as they do if we left them... The fact she can change her style in such minute ways is impressive in itself.”

“Sounds like she’s pretty good.” Oikawa mused.

“One of her first reviews pinned her as the upcoming writer for our generation. That’s Oe levels of good, and that guy won a _Nobel Prize_.”

Oikawa nodded, clueless.

He knew what all those words meant, definitely.

Makki slurped down another spoonful of broth.

“What’s her story then? A genius from a young age?”

Makki shrugged.

“She got published in Gunzo for a short story in high school. Not long after they awarded her the Gunzo Prize and people have been anticipating her official arrival ever since. By the time she got to university she had already signed with Kodansha for a book deal.”

“And you landed her as your first client?”

“Kind of. She hadn’t liked her first editor – said he was too pretentious for his own good – and her second editor fell away just as quickly. I was assisting her third editor and (Surname) asked for my opinion. I gave her one and now here I am, her final editor ever.”

“You so sure about that?”

“She _wishes_ she could get rid of me as easily as she did the others.” Makki pointed his chopsticks at him jokingly. “She thinks my opinion’s important.”

Oikawa hummed. “And that’s all you know?”

“That’s all most people know, really. I’ve been spending this past year trying to figure out what really makes her tick but she keeps it under lock and key. Which sucks since, y’know, we’re kind of in this together.”

Hanamaki sighed and tapped the rim of his bowl.

“She’s trying; she started therapy so maybe she’ll try a little harder... Be a little less fight-y.”

Oikawa choked around his mouthful. So he _had_ said therapy the first time.

The setter cleared his throat by taking a sip of his beverage. “Aren’t all writers a little... less than sane?”

Makki’s frown deepened and he kicked him again. “Don’t try and make her sound unstable to something if you talk,” he warned, as if he had read the thoughts embedded deep within the chasms of his mind, “in fact don’t mention it unless she does it first. Just don’t be a dick and she’ll remain as hospitable as she is.”

“How do you know she’s hospitable?”

“You aren’t complaining about her yet.”

Oikawa narrowed his eyes. Adulthood seemed to give Makki a faster wit and a sharper tongue. He didn’t know if he liked that.

The remainder of dinner was quiet for the most part, and after they had finished their respective bowls and two platers of gyoza they finally exited on to the street.

Oikawa hailed a taxi, watching as the driver shifted his own seat to accommodate for the crutches.

“I’ll catch you later then, Makki-Makki.” Oikawa chimed from the rolled down window.  Makki hunched over to level with his friend. “Tell Mattsun to come see me now that I have no one else to keep busy with.”

Makki nodded and gave a half-hearted salute. “You’ve got it Cap.”

Oikawa grinned and was about to give the confirmation to go when he noticed Makki shift his stance.

“She’s not that bad, really. She has her good days and bad days but she’s pretty alright on the whole. If you do keep talking to her don’t be too invasive, yeah? She won’t do it to you so all you gotta do is dish it right back to her and everything will be fine.” Oikawa pursed his lips.

“I think we may already be toeing that invasive line.”

A large hand clasped his shoulder. “She’s a lot like you.” Oikawa gagged a little. Makki’s grip tightened. “Just don’t be... _Fake_ -kawa and you’ll be fine.”

“What is ‘ _Fake_ -kawa’?”

Makki’s hand fell away and he shrugged as he stepped away from the curb.

“You’ll know when you see him.”

And then he was off, the taxi pulled away from the curb into the empty streets, navigating through the centre of Tokyo all the way to the Bunkyo ward.

Oikawa frowned.

What the fuck is a _Fake_ -kawa?

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh look; Matsuhana romantic subplot!! Also someone very important to the story just got mentioned for the second time, and they're gonna be veeeeery pivotal to the story! I wonder who it could be~~ 
> 
> Sorry this chapter took a while to get out, all. Working retail in Christmas is the absolute worst and there's been a health emergency in my family so that's been taking it's toll on me. I'll try to stick to my schedule a little better.
> 
> I'm trying to figure out the best lengths for the summaries of each chapter, if you guys have any opinions (where they should be long, short, none at all) then let me know. The next two chapters //should// be uploaded at the same time, just because they're sort of connected to each other in a weird plot-device-way-thing.
> 
> Thank you to everyone who has left some kudos - I'm glad you're enjoying the story! Leave me comments if you wanna talk or rant or something; they'll keep my commute to work entertaining ;)


	5. Breaks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You can’t get rid of me that easily Oikawa.”
> 
> The setter pursed his lips. 
> 
> “It’s Christmas Iwaizumi.”
> 
> The latter’s eyes widened momentarily in surprise as the tone; Oikawa used his Captain Voice. 
> 
> Oikawa never used his Captain Voice at him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the first part of a double update; make sure you read this one first!

_ December, 2017 _

 

Oikawa had always been impartial to long road trips in cars.

He didn’t love it. He didn’t hate it either.

It was the same as being trapped on a shinkansen for a few hours.

Japan’s public transport system was reliable, had been since the moment his parents let him traverse the Miyagi Prefecture one weekend with Iwaizumi in middle school. Most people didn’t travel long distances in cars anyway, not when you could get somewhere faster by bullet train.

But every year since the pair had moved, Oikawa and Iwaizumi had travelled back Sendai by car rather than train. Sure, it took an extra three and a half hours to get from Tokyo to their home town, but there was something special about being in the car together and just letting the world pass them by.

Iwaizumi was a decent driver who didn’t need to pee as often as Oikawa did, but if the latter was honest holding his pee in was better than dealing with the obnoxious tourists who travelled on the shinkansen.

And, yes, maybe spending quality time with his childhood friend as another bonus of a road trip.

But that year’s trip was more taxing, more uncomfortable than their previous years.

They had in the early afternoon of Christmas Eve, a decision they had decided on a few days prior in another stalemate encounter concerning Oikawa’s physical therapy.

The four hour trip had started off easy, more relaxed that he had anticipated with the tension of the days before washing away the same way the sun erased the presence of the night. Maybe that was because Iwa-chan had been busy chugging coffee has if his life depended on it. Maybe it was because Oikawa slept for the first hour and a half.

Whatever the reason, it made the next 3 hours bearable for the setter and the interrogation he could not escape from.

“Kuroo mentioned that you would start physiotherapy after winter break ends.” The words awoke him from Oikawa’s stupor, sending whatever warmth the car’s air conditioner provided away in one clean blow.

Oikawa pouted. “I didn’t know you and Tetsu-chan spoke, Iwa-chan.”

“He’s worried, I’m worried.” The spiky-haired male shrugged. “He visited me on campus so we could talk.”

The frown lines on the former’s face deepened. And here he was thinking Kuroo was on _his_ side; would let him wallow in whatever self-pity his pride would allow.

“Well it’s true.” He confirmed. “I’ll be off crutches by the middle of January and then my trainer and I are going to start strengthening my knee so I can get back to playing.”

Oikawa caught the furrow of the other male’s brow, noticed the way his long fingers curled around the steering wheel from what he could only guess was frustration.

“Are you sure you’re not rushing through this?”

Ah, it was concern.

A rare and genuine concern that Oikawa almost never saw with the wing spiker. Most of Iwaizumi’s reactions were laced with anger, with annoyance at the ‘stupidity’ of the younger male.

But this was concerning. _Very_ concerning.

It made his blood boil.

“I’ll never get back on to the court if I don’t start now.” Oikawa retorted.

“Isn’t this exactly how you got into this situation?”

“Hard work?”

“Overworking like an ass?”

Oikawa hadn’t realised he was gripping his good knee in anger until he felt his short nails pierce the flesh through his jeans.

“It’s not overworking if it’s necessary for improvement.”

“Do you need to improve any more than you already have in two decades of playing?”

Oikawa’s eye twitched. “What are you implying?”

Iwaizumi shrugged. He flicked the indicator on and merged into the fast line of the highway. “Not implying. I just think you shouldn’t stay inside your head for so long,” Iwaizumi looked at the setter from his peripheral, “it’s going to get you badly hurt one day.”

The brunet scoffed. “Too late.”

A dull thud echoed in the cabin, and Oikawa huffed from the impact of the black-haired male slamming his free fist against his sternum.

“Get your head out of your ass or I’ll leave you on the side of the road.” Iwaizumi responded.

“No you won’t~ you’ll get too bored alone in the car.”

Iwaizumi hit him again, a little lighter, but the action still hurt all the same.

The conversation died not long after. And, in un-Iwaizumi fashion, they had taken more rest stops in the remainder of the trip than they had in their entire history of the Christmas Road Trip™.

 

* * *

 

When they arrived in Sendai, Iwaizumi dropped him off first, making sure that his childhood friend would actually make it home in one piece. In previous years, Iwaizumi would drop Oikawa off at the bus terminal at the latter’s behest so he could travel home alone. This year, much to the setter’s disgruntlement, it seemed more appropriate for the tanned male to escort him the entire way home.

The sky had been painted an inky black and was littered with the faint lights of the stars millions of light years away. Oikawa frowned, maybe they should have left closer to the morning.

Iwaizumi dropped Oikawa’s suitcase next to him in the shade of the Oikawa homestead, a frown on his face as he examined the hardened features of the male next to him.

“You can head off now Iwa-chan~ I’m sure your parents would want you to arrive before dinner.”

“You can’t get rid of me that easily Oikawa.”

The setter pursed his lips.

“It’s Christmas Iwaizumi.”

The latter’s eyes widened momentarily in surprise as the tone; Oikawa used his Captain Voice.

Oikawa _never_ used his Captain Voice at him.

Iwaizumi swallowed the lump that had quickly formed in his throat before straightening his posture out.

The two glared at each other, the unruly tension slowly emanating around them in a bubble, expanding slowly out into the atmosphere the longer they held each other’s gaze.

The shorter male was the first to concede, shoving his hands into his pockets.

“See you in a week.” He grumbled, hardened gaze pouring into him once more before he stalked back to his car.

The setter frowned as he registered the underlying message.

 _This isn’t over_.

He followed Iwaizumi’s broad figure as he got into the car and started the engine, revving it once as if proving a point before he performed a three-point turn and exited out of his section of the neighbourhood.

Oikawa waited a few moments, checking the small street to make sure Iwaizumi’s car was nowhere in sight before he finally knocked on the front door.

As if on cue it swung open, revealing the familiar smile of his mother. He barely had any time to react before he was pulled off balance and into her strong embrace.

“Geez Mum, it’s only been a year.” He chimed happily as he felt her slender fingers card through his hair.

“I know... I’m just so glad you made it home this year, Tooru...” He voice was muffled by her long locks of brown, and Oikawa could feel the subtle shake of her shoulders against his.

He sighed and let himself be coddled.

Whether he was injured or not, this was the unavoidable fate he had to deal with when the holidays kicked in. The unfortunate side effects of his mother letting her only son leave the nest and move an entire prefecture over.

It wasn’t his fault, really.

“How is your knee sweetie? Does it hurt? Do you need to sit down?”

She held herself an arm’s length away, inspected every inch of his body at rapid speed, leaving him no room to answer before she began to drag him inside.

“I’ve almost finished dinner, go and have a seat in the lounge. And then after we finish eating you’re going straight to bed mister – I don’t want you overworking yourself this holiday!” She reprimanded, swatting his back to hurry him inside, helping him take of his shoes and put on indoor slippers in the process. “Honey? Tooru’s here!”

There were a series of heavy footfalls on the wooden floor before another familiar face rounded the corner to the genkan.

“Son.” The head of the household greeted, approaching the younger male with long, confident strides. The look on his father’s face as he hobbled towards him was one he never thought he would ever see.

Arms wrapped around him quickly, firmly.

And their hug, the rare embrace the two men shared, spoke volumes of what his father expected of him.

“I’m sorry,” it said, “that you couldn’t do what you always waned.”

And it _infuriated_ him.

But the setter said nothing, instead choosing to wrap his weaker arm around his father loosely before patting once and letting go.

“Hajime left already?” His father called as he passed him, immediately going to retrieve the suitcase left on their doorstep. Oikawa nodded.

“He said it was getting late, you know how Iwa-chan and his family are about the holidays.”

His parents chuckled good-naturedly, and soon he was guided into the lounge, still donning the mask he had worn for many, many years.

 

* * *

 

The only person who had treated him as if nothing was wrong was Takeru.

Precious, precious Takeru.

Oikawa knew that he was his favourite (albeit the only, but still favourite) nephew.

“Are the practices for Ryuujin Nippon hard?” “Do you like the home uniforms or the away uniforms more?” “Is Nishinoya-san really that short?” “Why isn’t Uncle Hajime on the team with you?” “I thought you hated that Ushiwaka guy?” “When do you get to play next?” “Can I come watch one of your practices?” “Can I meet the team?”

The questions came as quickly as the food at Christmas lunch disappeared. They rarely had extended family over for Christmas Day itself; just himself, his parents, his older sister and her son, but that didn’t make the affair any less special.

Oikawa answered every single question kindly, patiently, and with a smile that told no lies.

Of course the practices were hard, he was a _National Player_ now; the away uniforms are way cooler, but Nishinoya’s black uniform looked the best; yes, he really was that short; Iwa-chan wasn’t picked for the 2020 Olympic Roster which the wing spiker said was fine since he wanted to go into sports journalism anyway; Ushiwaka was annoying but they were civil; when his knee healed up; yes, he can.

And lunch ended with an excited preteen and a tired adult who was ready for an early night.

Oikawa hobbled up the stairs towards his room, and just when he was in the clear he was intercepted by his older sister.

“Nee-san.” He greeted cheerfully, head cocked to the side.

“Are you alright Tooru? You looked a little down.”

Oikawa Mihiko was observant, not as observant as _he_ was, but enough to know when things were amiss. But often with her observation came her sympathy and pity; perhaps the worst qualities about the oldest Oikawa child.

And despite Mihiko’s clear concern, Oikawa determined that he really didn’t need any more of _that_ than he already got since the announcement of his injury.

“I must still be tired from the trip yesterday,” he stated, “I had to keep Iwa-chan awake the entire time~ We really should have left earlier in the day this time around.” He rubbed the back of his neck, short nails scraping against the short hairs.

Mihiko narrowed her eyes at him, but nodded nonetheless. “If you want to talk, you know you can come to me... I’m always going to be here for you; we’re siblings, after all...”

Oikawa felt his eye twitch involuntarily. “I know.” He confirmed before gesturing to the hallway. “I’m going to turn in early... Let me know if anyone else shows up today and I’ll come greet them.”

Mihiko bit her lip but nodded, stepping aside so that her younger brother could hobble past.

She didn’t notice the way his grip on the crutches tightened, nor did she hear the resigned sigh that escaped his lips once he closed the door to his room.

 

* * *

 

Oikawa hadn’t anticipated much from his trip back to Sendai. Running into their National libero was certainly something he did not consider.

But there Nishinoya was, standing in a konbini in the middle of Sendai with his usual grin and slicked back hair. Next to him the old Karasuno Ace in their third year – Azumane Asahi – just as sheepish off the court as Oikawa recalled.

It appeared that opposites did indeed attract.

Nishinoya had kept the blond highlight the setter remembered all too well from high school; the troublesome libero image had transcended through to adulthood much to Coach Nagakaichi’s dismay.

(“We can’t really make him dye his hair ‘natural’ considering we have a player whose hair is black and white ‘naturally’.” Kuroo had argued.

“How do you know that Tarou’s hair is natural?” Oikawa challenged.

The conversation had been dropped immediately.)

Noya had been insistent on treating his setter (the pronoun made him smile slightly) to dinner, and Oikawa had been equally reluctant. But somehow, the latter found himself trapped in between a wall and Azumane in a small yakiniku place in the centre of Sendai.

And, much to his surprise (read: distaste), he and the couple weren’t alone.

“Are you sure you didn’t have anything important to do with your family Oikawa-san?” Azumane asked, glancing across at the two men sitting opposite him and the one to just to his right.

“No I didn’t.” He confirmed with a tight-lipped smile and a practice air of confidence. Being with them was better than being a stifling family environment. There was less guilt here, less need to pretend that he was fine when all three could plainly tell he was, in fact, not.

Besides, technically Christmas was over, and they had already visited the family shrine early that morning which meant he had the rest of the week to spend alone. Or as alone as he could get.

This, from the strange turn of events, appeared to be not a lot.

“We aren’t interrupting any plans of yours are we?” The male directly opposite him inquired. Oikawa shook his head.

“Nope! I wouldn’t have agreed otherwise.”

The tension dissipated almost immediately, and as quickly as it did the food they ordered arrived at their table.

He narrowed his eyes slightly, letting them dance from both the dark haired male across from him and grey haired male beside him before slowly beginning to grill his serving of pork.

Sawamura was a pain in his ass, both in high school and university. The wing spiker had gotten broader, filled out more in his chest and legs, and, for some ungodly reason, had gotten increasingly better at receiving. He was a libero in spiker form; and though it pissed him off when their universities clashed, he had to respect the man. Growth was a hard thing to do, and it seemed that everyone from Karasuno was blessed with ability to evolve more than he could ever anticipate.

Mr Refreshing was more so an annoyance rather than a full blown pain. Like a mosquito bite on the bottom of his foot, or a slow walker on a crowded pathway. Sugawara was simultaneously a better and worse version of himself; better because, as the nickname implied, he had the ability to change the momentum of what appeared to be any situation entirely, but worse because there were very few that could surpass the great Oikawa Tooru in commanding an audience.

“Daichi, pass the beef.”

The pair brushed fingers, the touch lingered.

Ah, and it appeared the annoying couple was dating too.

Mattsun owed him ¥500 for that bet they made in high school.

“It’s a shame about your injury Oikawa-san, but I doubt it can really hold you back for very long.”

Sugawara chimed in above the separate hums of conversation the group was having. He grinned slightly, beauty mark near his eye pushing closer to the lid.

“If anything it’ll make your serves a little more aggressive when you step back on to the court.”

Sawamura continued. Oikawa forced himself not to tilt his head in surprise. Had Sawamura always been that refreshing or was Mr Refreshing rubbing off on him? Because if it was then that would make the couple more annoying that Makki and Mattsun were – and they weren’t even officially dating.

“Of course it will!” Noya slammed his fist down on to the table, making the cutlery and china bounce from the impact. “We’ve got the FIVB to win! And a gold medal in Jakarta to secure and we need this guy to hold down the offense!”

Oikawa couldn’t hide his grin and instead chose to wave off the compliment-not-really-a-compliment. “That’s if I get better in time for the Asian Games and the FIVB; and even if I don’t then you still have Tobio-chan~”

He winced. Why did those words physically hurt him to say?

Noya frowned, but didn’t say anything further. It was unlike him, and Oikawa would have questioned his actions if hadn’t spotted the glare from Sugawara out of the corner of his eye.

The rest of the meal had been quiet on Oikawa’s part, mostly due to Sugawara’s skill of diverting any more attention from him. From the look in his eyes, he could tell that the ex-crow setter knew he wasn’t in the mood to talk. And he was thankful, somewhat.

But the absence of him in the conversation meant that he could only listen and observe, could not transcend beyond the outsider looking in to the lives of the people he was ghosting.

Apparently, the Karasuno boys met up often. The third years all resided in the Miyagi Prefecture; Sawamura had an office job lined up after graduation, Sugawara a teaching job at Karasuno, and Azumane in their family owned mechanic auto-shop, which meant they could see each other often. The second and first years were a little more spread out; the second years were scattered between Miyagi (Nishinoya, Tanaka and Narita) and Nigata (Ennoshita and Kinnoshita) and tried as often as they could to see each other. The first years Oikawa knew of very clearly; that pinch server Yamaguchi had stayed in Sendai and was on the same university team as Nishinoya (and his floating serve had gotten progressively _worse_ as he had matured) while the Freak Duo and the Glasses were in Tokyo.

The conversation had made Oikawa think a little harder; how can school club with an ever changing line up be so close with one another? He only ever talked to Iwa-chan, Makki and Mattsun from the old Seijoh team, and that was initially because they were in the same year. 

He pouted to himself and continued to grill his portion of meat. Those crows were certainly more interesting than he originally anticipated.

It made him sick.

 

* * *

 

Staying in his childhood home during the holidays every year was a surreal experience.

But this year in particular was different, was surreal and unsettling in ways that rang alarm bells in his head.

When Oikawa first moved to Tokyo with Iwaizumi, he hadn’t taken a lot at the request of his parents. They were sure that he would be back to live at home by the end of first year. Their prediction wasn’t the case and over the course of his university career he found himself taking more and more relics of his past to Tokyo with him, and the migration only increased when he finally moved into his own apartment in Bunkyo.

Most of his belongings that remained in Miyagi were childhood toys and a few trophies that one would consider tacky; a few participation trophies and any awards he received specifically during school. Most of the childhood photos also stayed in Miyagi, more so for his mother’s sake that his own dislike of the photos. He had smuggled a few out of the prefecture; a decent selection of him and Iwaizumi through their friendship, and plenty from his final year of high school.

Those items had always been on display for him in his old room, unchanged and unmoving in every visit as if he had never left for university in the first place.

This year when he arrived, the first thing he noticed was how _bare_ everything was.

The walls were painted neutral beige, and any sign of his once lived in presence was removed entirely. When confronted, his parents stated that the rest of his belongings were safe in the storage save for the photo albums which were in the lounge. They had always wanted a guest room, and they knew he wouldn’t mind having his stuff be put away until he could come get them at a later date.

Things had changed, uncannily so.

The room was bare, was unrecognisable.

But that didn’t stop him from seeing the room as it was – _his_.

And he was being replaced – was being erased – from his own _goddamn home._

Oikawa clutched at the linen on the bed, fingers scratching at the springs that were pressing uncomfortably into his back.

The brunet frowned.

He had to go see Iwa-chan.

He wasn’t sure if it was something he genuinely needed to do or a compulsion caused by the intrusiveness of his Sendai homestead, but he _needed_ to see Iwaizumi.

 

* * *

 

The Iwaizumi household was a few streets away, much closer to the station the pair would use to head to Aoba Johsai back in the day. Makki would get on a stop later, Mattsun another two.

Oikawa continued to move up the familiar street, not bothering to take not of the subtle changes four years made to the urban sprawl of their hometown. He hadn’t taken his jacket with him, or his phone, none of that was a priority. He had snuck out of the house with his crutches with a success he didn’t realise he had, and he sure as hell wasn’t going back there for something as remedial as warm or a sense of time.

He clambered through the wooden fence and made his way to the back of the house where he knew Iwaizumi’s bedroom window was. Muscle memory, he thought to himself, as he stooped slightly to pick up a smooth rock and hurled it directly at the glass with a force that rivalled his serves.

A few more hits and a shadow loomed by the frosted glass, and Oikawa knew he had successfully awoken the beast.

Thank God.

“What are you, sixteen?” The tanned male grumbled as he tugged the jacket closer to his shoulders. “It’s the middle of the night and you’re injured.”

“I couldn’t sleep Iwa-chan...”

“Yeah, you really have regressed back to sixteen.” Iwaizumi pinched the bridge of his nose. “Go home Oikawa. The cold weather is going to worsen your knee."

“I-I can’t...”

The words left him in a whisper, and Iwaizumi’s once frustrated eyes softened immediately as they registered the expression on the former’s face.

Panic.

The shorter male looked over towards the distant sunrise threatening to loom over the mountainside. When he looked back, he saw the dark circles that clung to the bottom of the brunet’s eyelids, could see the way the fatigue threatened to take him over and leave him sprawled out in the unforgiving cold.

Iwaizumi sighed and approached, shrugging off his jacket.

“Let’s get you home Oikawa...” He murmured, spinning him around slowly. “I’ll come get you after breakfast.”

 

* * *

 

They left before midday that same day, Iwaizumi farewelling his family right after breakfast in order to get Oikawa on their way out of the prefecture.

He didn’t greet the Oikawa family. Instead, he grabbed Oikawa’s luggage and placed it in the car and remained there while the latter said his goodbyes.

“My trainer wants me back in Tokyo early,” he lied with a saddened smile, “he’s worried the cold up here in Sendai is going to aggravate the injury.” He faked a pout. “I can come back for Dad’s birthday once I’m off crutches and when the weather warms up.”

Takeru made him promise, and he could never say no to his nephew.

 

* * *

 

Iwaizumi didn’t press for answers until after their third rest stop.

“My mother told me to tell you to look after yourself. And that you should have come to visit them properly at least once before we had to leave,” the words left as a growl, as if he was going to hold this over his head.

The brunet scoffed to himself. Iwaizumi was a petty bastard about holidays; he probably _was_ going to hold this against him. Maybe it was a side effect of having an older family; Iwa-chan had been the only child of a couple who had had trouble conceiving for years until he came along. That and their extended family were much smaller, with lives that were busier than Oikawa’s larger one.

Oikawa bit his tongue and kept his gaze trained on to the undulating highway.

Iwaizumi pursed his lips.

“Was it too much?”

Oikawa nodded, too far gone inside his head to verbally answer. He was still wearing Iwaizumi’s jacket.

The latter kept pressing, kept poking around for answers he knew would never come.

Oikawa needed a break, and it seemed his mind would not provide him with the luxury unless he suffered for it.

The joke was on his mind, Oikawa thought, these days he was always suffering.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Solo chapters are always fun to write; there's more room for introspection and I don't have to try and make events flow as seamlessly as other chapters.  
> Oikawa, for the most part, is a precious boy who needs to be loved and I'm so torn that I'm hurting my boy like this he doesn't deserve this whY DID I WRITE HIS PLOTLINE LIKE THIS IM SORRY-  
> ALSO I know technically Noya's blond streak is natural in the canon but y'know its funnier to think that he dyed it just for the Wild Aesthetic™.
> 
> (there's a proper end note in the second update so make sure you read that)


	6. Overtime

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She learned to dance around their prodding delicately and gracefully, weaving responses that only satisfied at face level.
> 
> And that was enough for most people.
> 
> No one bothered to try and look any deeper.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the second part of a double update; make sure you read this one second!

_ January, 2018 _

 

The thing about taking a break, in any shape or form, was that it’s never really ‘a break’.

The process of separation was never really something that one could consider easy.

(Name) tapped away idly on her phone, the coloured bubbles disappearing in lines of four and five before new multicoloured ones took their place.

Breaks were boring. Breaks meant no action. Breaks made the passage of time seem much longer than it really was.

And therein was the problem _she_ could stop moving but _the world_ would not.

Her ‘break’ had been littered with work commitments Hanamaki had forgotten to postpone to the beginning of the 2018 working year; interviews, an public appearance on a talk show, and a book signing that left the writer with no room to breathe.

She smiled and waved, thanked people for reading, and then answered the questions that lingered in the minds of her readers.

This meant she was thinking.

The exact opposite of what she was meant to be doing.

That was the other problem with breaks; that _you_ could stop but your _mind_ could not.

Hell, most people don’t _think_ in general.

But when you got paid to _think_ , stepping away from the _thinking_ is much harder than it seemed.

She couldn’t blame Hanamaki; really, he had his own list of troubles to think about with the ongoing holiday. “I’m coming out to the family,” he had informed her, “this year’s the year.”

And while the words held a conviction, his eyes detailed all the fear in the world.

So she let him off. Just this once.

There were bigger fish to fry than her mental wellbeing.

The door of the office opened.

“(Surname)-sensei, we’re ready for you.”

(Name) nodded wordlessly, slipping the phone into her coat pocket before following the assistant into the room. 

Her last scheduled item for the winter break was the interview; an ‘exclusive’ one-on-one with a journalist from one of Japan’s highest rated literary magazines that Kodansha didn’t publish. She had scoffed when Hanamaki described it as ‘exclusive’ – all the interviews with her were automatically exclusive, the word meant nothing if everyone and their mother had seen her in some one-on-one format.

Her interviewer was a young man, Watanabe he had introduced himself as, and she recognised him from the launch party for ‘A Moth to Flame’ early that year. He hadn’t the nerve to introduce himself to her back then and even now when they sat in front of one another, Watanabe wore an air of nervousness that reminded her of a familiar konbini store clerk.

Another green-horn journalist.

Much to her dismay, the questions he asked were the same ones she had been answering since the very first day of the novel’s release.

_What is your writing process like?_

_How does it feel to have people anticipating every release as a new author on the scene?_

_Do you have any other big plans for your work?_

_How do you relate to your protagonist?_

And, perhaps, her most favourite question of all:

_ What did it all mean? _

“It’s all metaphoric,” she replied, “a cautionary tale for generations of people who all strive to be something despite not knowing what that something is. We’re all trying to find ourselves, to find our place, and we overstep our bounds dangerously for a chance at something that may not be real. There’s nothing wrong with reaching – if anything you should – but there’s a danger in reaching for something that isn’t there. And too many Icarus stories speak of reaching the goal but really not many people do, and I wanted to explore that.

“But it is a bildungsroman, so really it means whatever you want it to mean.” She concluded with a slight laugh.

The follow up question always made her stomach drop.

_ Why? _

_Christ_ , she hated that word.

“Why not?” She countered with a coy smile.

The interviewer laughed good-naturedly, not bothering to press for a more legitimate answer. Most interviewers knew it was pointless with the writer; any answer of hers that related to her reasoning behind the story itself was always wrapped in layers they could not get to. She learned to dance around their prodding delicately and gracefully, weaving responses that only satisfied at face level.

And that was enough for most people.

No one bothered to try and look any deeper.

 

* * *

 

She returned from the interview, tired and ready for sleep. (Name) refrained from flicking on the lights; the distant glow of lights that entered from the balcony door was enough to help her navigate through the terrain. In the corner of her eye she noticed the flashing answering machine connected to her landline.

Voice mail.

The writer frowned as she approached the machine.

No one called her on her landline – no one _important_ at the very least. Most people knew that their best point of contact was her email or mobile... Hell even calling Hanamaki to call her was a better shot than the landline.

“(Name), this is your father-”

Delete.

“(Name), its dad again-”

Delete.

“(Name)-”

She sighed and smashed her thumb against the button repeatedly, clearing away all the messages left by her father in her inbox.

She shouldn’t have bothered, she thought, no one important ever called the landline.

With a tired groan, the (h/c)-haired woman collapsed on to her couch, sprawling out so she lay across the cushions, one arm and leg hanging off the edge while her other half bent at the elbow and knee against the backing. She was still wrapped in her thick overcoat and scarf, and the heat from the layers mixed with her body heat making her idle position all the more uncomfortable. But she couldn’t move, couldn’t find the energy to shed layers and return to sleep in the comfort of her own bed.

She was too busy thinking, much to her behest.

As her eyes slowly slid shut, they were pried open once more at the sudden intrusion of noise from the landline.

“Not again...” She grumbled, rolling on to her stomach and pressing cushions into her ears in hopes of blocking out the noise.

It did nothing.

“(Name), this is your father-”

Ah, it seemed he was now angry with her lack of response.

‘And it only took a few voice messages this time... He’s losing it.’ She thought to herself.

“I know you’re busy these days with work but it would have been nice if you at least came to visit for the last few days of your break. The New Year celebrations in Osaka are over but your grandparents and I still haven’t gone to visit the family shrine. I’d appreciate it if my only child was there, (Name), it would be nice to be reminded what a normal family holiday felt like for once.

“Call me when you get this, whether you’re coming down to visit or not I want to hear from _you_ and not from something published in a newspaper.”

And then it was over, time no longer stretching out the length of his one sided conversation. Still face down, she threw her middle finger up at the landline, making a mental note to delete that message as she murmured something close to a “Go fuck yourself Dad.”

The silence enveloped her slowly, wrapping itself around her still sprawled out limbs and continuing to smother her in a heat she didn’t know possible in the winter. It forced her out of her black scarf.

(Name) hadn’t been back in Osaka in a few months. Earlier that year she had done a book tour around the country for a month and a half, visiting every major city and book retailer in all 47 prefectures to sign books and meet loyal fans. Hanamaki had been persuaded by Hisakawa to organise it, spouting some nonsense about building up a more personable persona for the writer that would eventually lead to more sales.

(“I’m not an actor, Hanamaki. I get paid to write, not put on a fake smile and pretend to be an ideal woman for the public.” She growled out.

“But wouldn’t it be nice if people knew more about _you_ rather than the _name_ you write under?” Hanamaki inquired.

It wouldn’t, she thought, because the ‘(Name)’ Hisakawa wanted wasn’t the ‘(Name)’ she actually was.)

But because Hanamaki had already promised it to Hisakawa she went through with it. She wasn’t personable, though. Instead of the ideal image Hisakawa envisioned her portraying, she acted normally – cynical and sly and blasé with a sarcasm that made the man’s head spin– which somehow resonated more with people more than anyone in the department could image.

Stupid Hisakawa.

But that was for work, not pleasure. The last time she was in her hometown at her own leisure was her high school graduation. She left the prefecture to move into Bunkyo a month later and had never returned for something other than work ever since.

This meant she hadn’t seen her father in what was coming close to five years.

She had no complaints about that if she was perfectly honest. The further away she was from her old man, the better. And the aforementioned parent had not complaints about her moving away either, so (Name) couldn’t understand why he was so determined to get her to come home every single year.

Was her silence not enough for him? Did he need her to write it in the sky? Maybe send a musical telegram or barber shop quartet for him to understand?

The phone rang again.

“Fucks sake!” She hissed, standing up and storming over to the phone. She grabbed the landline and pressed it against her ear. “What!?”

“I mean, I know I forgot to cancel your schedule for this week but I didn’t think you’d be _this_ pissed.”

The writer visibly relaxed at the familiar voice; never had she been so relieved to hear her editor’s voice.

“No I... I’m not angry at you, its fine. What’d you need Hanamaki?” She sighed, lowering her voice.

“Just wanted to see how you’re doing – you should be finished with everything right?” She hummed. “Has your break been good? Do you have any other plans?”

“Just sleep.” She responded, and she heard him shuffling around on the other end of the receiver. “You with your family still?”

“Nah, we’re on our way out right now. We took the last bullet train out of Miyagi.” He whispered something to someone else. “Mattsun’s sleeping but he says hi.”

“Don’t bother your boyfriend if he’s sleeping, that’s rude.”

(Name) could feel Hanamaki roll his eyes and her comment.

“I, uh... I didn’t tell them.”

She tapped her fingers against the nearby wall absentmindedly. “Are you sure _you_ don’t need the therapy sessions?”

“I’ll just start sitting in on yours.”

“Ah yeah, both of you can interrogate me, that’ll be so fun.” It was her turn to roll her eyes, and Hanamaki laughed at her banal tone. “Was that all you needed to say? Cause I think I’m gonna hit the hay a little early.”

Silence, and then Hanamaki coughed.

“I forgot to say it before I left but... Merry Christmas (Name).”

Her grip around the phone tightened involuntarily. “Merry Christmas Hanamaki.” She answered. “Now sleep or your boyfriend will yell at me for keeping you up.”

“Not my boyfriend.” The editor grumbled.

“If it helps you sleep at night.”

And then they hung up, dial tone filling the space he once occupied.

 

* * *

 

“How is everything going?”

“Poorly.”

As promised, her sessions with Doctor Nakamura post the weeklong break fizzled from bi-weekly to weekly, and if (Name) was honest that was the only thing she had genuinely anticipated in months.

And while the writer saw the decrease in sessions as good, the doctor saw it as an opportunity to try and break her open more and more frequently.

(Name) wasn’t sure if she preferred the bi-weekly slow paced sessions or the rapid fire weekly ones more. They were both as shitty as the other.

“Breaks aren’t really my type of style, Doc, even if I try and make it so.” She explained, noticing the way that Nakamura waited with a pen poised in her hand. She scribbled down a note. (Name)’s eye twitched.

“You have been actively trying to remove yourself from your work, yes?”

“Kind of hard when you can’t postpone your work commitments, Doc... But yes, I have been actively trying.” She fired back.

“And?”

“I feel empty.” She determined blank faced. “Like something is missing and nothing I do can fill it.”

There was silence – there tended to be a lot of silence when it came to their sessions – as Nakamura wrote down a few more dot points on to her clipboard.

“I can’t turn my brain off, Doc.” She smiled sadly. “It’s always on, always... _thinking_. About lines of dialogue and description and I can’t live without it.”

“Why do you think that is?”

(Name)’s lips curled further. “Cause writing’s all I’ve really got left.”

“And why do you think _that_ is?”

The writer froze, shoulders tensed as she sat ramrod straight in place. Slowly, so slowly, she shook her head.

“I think that’s another bottle to open for another day, Doc.”

Nakamura tapped her pen in rhythm with the distant ticking of the mounted wall-clock, eyes trained on the writer in deep contemplation.

“Perhaps the cause of your burnout isn’t just the workload you have given yourself. Maybe it’s the environment you’re in.” She reasoned. “You started writing because you love it, because it made you feel whole, correct?” (Name) nodded. “And now that it’s your career it’s demanding and unpleasant because of the people you are forced to interact with. And that’s perfectly normal – people in general can be draining if they clash with your personality and ideals.”

The image of Hisakawa flashed in the writer’s mind. She _knew_ it was that fucker’s fault.

“There’s only one person that comes to mind...” She began, “and even then Hanamaki deals with him for me so I don’t have to.”

Nakamura hummed.

“Then perhaps it’s the _work_ itself.” She mused, pushing her glasses up the bridge of her nose. “Tell me, do you like the works you’ve written so far.”

(Name) thought for a moment before shrugging. “They’re okay.”

“Just okay?”

“I could be writing something better.” Nakamura gestured for her to continue. “Something of substance, I don’t know. The stories are interesting, yeah, but writing them is taxing and it isn’t worth it because-”

 _Because it hits way too close to home_.

(Name) sunk further into the couch.

“If I can be so bold, I’ve read your current works over our separation and I must say I do enjoy your older works more.”

The writer tilted her head in surprise. “Huh?”

Nakamura nodded with a small smile on her face. “Your short stories – particularly your very first story published in the Gunzo. It seems more fitting to your style, to your thoughts, don’t you think?”

(Name)’s eyes widened at the confession. Her first works were all short stories, all about the things she noticed about people at school or in public, were all little introspections of life that helped her make a little more sense of the world around her. Of course it was more fitting to her style; it was where her style originated from.

The therapist looked at the glazed expression on her face, smile widening even more. “Maybe you should return to that style of literature?” She pondered aloud. “Sure, ‘A Moth to Flame’ is a work of art in its own right, and I’m sure your next novel is just as fantastic, but there’s a charm about these little stories I think makes more sense to you.”

The older woman shrugged a little. “I think there’s more to your writing than you let on, (Surname)-san. I think that you just need to find a story worth telling.”

_ A story worth telling. _

Most stories were worth telling to her but...

(Name) felt her head pound, a sudden torrent of waves crashing into the sides of her skull. It was back, the feeling of being consumed by her thoughts was back, but she didn’t hate it. For once in a long time things were making sense again.

There was a drive, a compulsion to move forward she hadn’t felt in a long time. And with it came the ideas.

The adolescence and innocence of Yamashita Haruko behind the counter of the konbini, of the nerves and fear that came with confrontation in its simplest forms, of the fatigue and long nights and demands of a world that expected too much from its youth.

The will-they-won’t-they of Hanamaki and Mattsun, of the changing times and stagnant faiths, of the unyielding emotions that forced them to stay still when they obviously wanted to move forward.

The long-gone youthfulness she had when her career stated, of the dreams and hopes that had been burned with the idealism of her future.

The unrelenting demands of her family, of the stern look from her father that she remembered from her youth, of the disheartened expression of her grandparents when she moved.

And in the midst of her thoughts, she saw it.

Him.

She saw her reflection in her injured neighbour, the deer-in-headlights look he gave her a mere few months ago. She could hear Hanamaki’s praises about him from their high school days, the reprimanding of the editor when he first asked her the favour, and then she saw the enigma he really was.

Limpy was far too much like her than he would ever admit, and the tragedy of it was that made him all the more interesting. He wanted to know what made him tick, wanted to break him down like a metaphor and know just how alike they were. There was a mask he hid behind – hell if he was as similar to her as she presumed then he probably had a good dozen to choose from – and (Name) wanted to know what lay beyond, what he was so scared of...

She had to go.

The writer jolted up and out of her seat, hands immediately going to grab her belongings. The movement startled Nakamura, and the therapist watched with wide eyes as her patient moved with a determination and drive that she had not seen in all their sessions. The writer stalked to the door wordlessly, and Nakamura knew that if she set her mind on leaving then there was no way to convince her otherwise.

(Name) paused at the door.

“Hey Doc,” she glanced over her shoulder and smiled ever so slightly, “thanks.”

“See you next week, (Surname)-san.”

And then she was gone, twenty minutes early.

 

* * *

 

“You _what_!?”

“I’ve got another idea in mind.”

Hanamaki merely blinked at her, unable to for a response to her statement (request, lie?) at the end of their meeting.

The editor’s eyes narrowed.

“Who are you and what have you done with (Surname) (Name)?”

The woman lobbed a ball of paper in between his eyebrows.

“You’re pushing the line, Hanamaki.” She grumbled, reclining into her seat for protection. He shook his head.

“No, I just...” Hanamaki sighed. “I didn’t actually think you’d do it... you’re very one track minded.”

“I know, it’s weird, it’s a long story, but I haven’t felt this excited about something in _years_ , Hanamaki.”

The editor looked at the writer, curiously taking note of the flickering flames that illuminated the (e/c) orbs.

He was weary, always weary with (Name). He had to be, it was the nature he adopted around her. He leant forward on his forearms. “What’d you have in mind? Another book? Short story?”

“Anthology.”

He blinked once, then twice, and it was in the fifth second of silence that he fully understood what word just left her lips.

“ _Poetry_?!”

“I’ve got some samples for works I wanna include,” she tapped a small pile of A5paper, watching as it compressed under the weight ever so slightly, “just a few stanzas and ideas but I think there’s potential.”

Hanamaki looked at her, dumbfounded, and placed both palms firmly against the table.

“I’ll ask you again, Imposter. Who are you and what have you done with the real (Surname) (Name)?”

The writer sighed exasperatedly. “Fuck, I’m going to fire you so fucking fast.”

“Never mind, you are the real (Surname).”

She threw her hands up in defeat, and Hanamaki laughed at her expense. When his laughter died down, he felt chills run up his spine at the look on her face.

She was serious.

“(Surname) you hate poetry.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“And you know that _anthology_ means _poetry_ , right?”

“Yeah, I know.”

He cocked his head to the side. “So you’re gonna have to explain to me what’s going on because I have no clue what happened in the week I wasn’t in the prefecture.”

The writer clenched her fist and lightly tapped it against her stack of papers. “ _This_ happened, and I don’t like that it happened because poetry is too fiddly but it doesn’t fit any other way and I hate that but look, this is probably the best idea I’ve had in years!”

Hanamaki scowled at her confession. All of her plans were brilliant, all of the concepts were well thought out and interesting, so what was special about whatever she was going on about now?

The look in her eyes demanded he read the samples, and he swept them into his grasp with shaky arms.

He rifled through them slowly and with a practiced ease, eyes scanning every line and word with the same scrutiny he did when looking at her official manuscripts.

Hanamaki paused at one stanza.

 _He hangs to his lover the way leaves do the branch_  
_Natural, as if he was meant to be on his arm_  
_And yet when the winter comes to separate them_  
_They do not_  
_They relent and break the wind that whips around_  
_Warming each other’s frozen hearts as if a second nature_

He blinked, and looked up at the writer, then back down to a new sheet.

 _Ink paints the sky when the sun sets_  
_and yet the darkness does not reach beyond the walls_  
_She stands behind_  
_Instead she is circled by her own halo of stars_  
_No constellations, merely sources of false hope that_  
_Do nothing to sooth the eye_  
_But awaken it_  
_Make it sore_

Each broken stanza was a different story, and it was then that Hanamaki realised what had happened.

(Name) had gone back to her roots. And in a twist of fate he was not hit with nostalgia, instead he was met with a refined version of her style that sent fear into his core.

 _How did she get better in such a short amount of time_?

He set the pile of paper back on to the desk slowly, barely moving, as if he was trying to not spoke the wild (Name) in front of him. Every move he made mattered, every word and phrase uttered in the next few minutes would make or break their situation.

The look in her eyes asked for feedback, for confirmation.

He had never seen that before.

“These are good... Really good,” he swallowed his saliva, “I still don’t get why you chose poetry of all things?”

He waited for the backlash. It never came.

(Name) shrugged and dropped her chin slightly. “It just felt right, y’know? Like nothing else can make sense of these images I see but poetry. I mean, I’m always gonna want to write books and short stories and weave these tall tales but...”

Chocolate brown eyes flashed in her mind. A disheartened smile. A look of defeat before he had even tried.

The voice inside her head echoed the fragments of an unfinished stanza softly, slowly.

“There’s a new story I want to tell... And this is how it’s gotta be done.

And there it was, Hanamaki felt his shoulders relax at the sound of her voice. He sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose.

(Name) looked up at him curiously.

“What’re your next steps, then?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh Reader, you truly are a piece of work.  
> Do these chapters seem a little all over the place? Because they're meant to and I hope that's obvious to you guys.  
> But look! Plot! It's thickening!
> 
> As Christmas is right around the corner I'm going to try and keep updating the story; mostly so you all have something to read during awkward family gatherings, partially to keep me sane while I work because people are rude and stupid -.-" Our store is really understaffed and since it's the holiday season we're all working really long shifts which doesn't help in the stupid Australian heat.  
> But if you want to help keep me sane then talk to me! I'm always all ears about what you all think so far about the story, it really means a lot to me that you've been enjoying it and sending it lots of love! xx


	7. Throw in the Towel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the most part she was pleasant; Makoto understood her boundaries and when and where to push them, understood (Name) wasn’t much of a talker, understood her the way a best friend would.
> 
> Because that’s what she was, at the very least.
> 
> A friend.
> 
> //
> 
> After having dinner with the old Karasuno seniors, Oikawa realised he really only had a few friends.
> 
> Iwa-chan, Makki-Makki, Mattsun, Tetsu-chan, Tarou-chan.
> 
> And that was fine. Maybe.

_January, 2018 _

Shinagawa Station was not quiet at 8 in the morning.

Nowhere in Japan was quiet at 8 in the morning.

The writer didn’t leave her apartment much. Not without a good reason – a meeting with Hanamaki for a bad example, an interview for a worse one. But when she was scheduled to leave the confines of her home, (Name) tended to remain indoors until 9:30, when the last of the work-goers and school kids were successful aboard a train headed to who god knows where and the stations were more manageable, less crowded.

But somehow she found herself waiting idly near the entrance of the Shinagawa Shinkansen Terminal during Rush Hour in the middle of the prefecture’s coldest month in the past decade.

She clutched a to-go cup of coffee in her left hand, rubbed her eye with her right, and watched the information on the screens flash slowly, signalling the arrival of trains that weren’t any of her concern.

(Name) yawned and leant against the grey wall, keeping a close eye on the train listed at the bottom of the screen.

**Platform 23 – 200 Nozomi – 8:16**

She checked the time on her phone. 8:16.

“Oi! (Name)!”

The woman looked up, her head whipping around the crowded terminal frantically before her gaze settled on a woman running through the crowds toward her, donning and beige overcoat and lugging behind her a silver suitcase.

The writer smiled, waving her free hand in response. “Makoto.”

The black haired woman approached hard and fast, and both of her arms immediately wrapped around the (h/c)-haired woman’s neck and chest with a vigour that almost knocked the coffee out of her hands.

“It’s only been a few months, no need to wring my neck.” The writer laughed, pulling her empty hand around her new companion.

Fuyutsuki Makoto had been around for as long as the stories had.

The ones (Name) wanted to share, at least.

And the dark-haired woman had carved a place in her companion’s life whether the latter liked it or not.

For the most part she was pleasant; Makoto understood her boundaries and when and where to push them, understood (Name) wasn’t much of a talker, understood her the way a best friend would.

Because that’s what she was, at the very least.

A friend.

(Name) scanned up and down the taller woman’s body.

She had gained weight. The writer smiled. That’s was always a good sign with Makoto

“How was your trip?”

“Cold; I had to leave at 6 in the morning for this trip so I hope you’re appreciative of all my effort.” Makoto grumbled, hiking up the collar of her coat with one hand while the other pulled her roller suitcase along. The writer shrugged.

“You could have come later in the day; it would’ve let both of us sleep in, it also would have been a little warmer than this.” (Name) chided with a small smirk. When she left her apartment it was reported to be 3 degrees Celsius. By the time she reached Shinagawa, it was 4.

The highest was meant to be 10.

It was Makoto’s turn to shrug, and the pair paused at the curb as they tried to hail a cab. “Just get me to your apartment so I can drop my stuff off, we’ve got things to do today!”

“You know it would be a cheaper trip for you if you, oh I don’t know, went to my apartment first instead of having me meet you? Cause now we’re spending double the money for a trip that could have been one way.”

“But you’re rich so its fine, and you are my best friend so take responsibility!”

(Name) blinked. “You do realise that I am equally as broke as any normal university student-”

“Shhh! You have things to buy me and I have places to see!” Makoto eyed the cup in (Name)’s hand. “What? No coffee for me?”

“You only drink tea. And you texted me that you had one on the trip over.” (Name) challenged. It was her turn to eye Makoto. “What? No souvenir for me?”

 “You were literally born in Osaka, why would I-?”

Makoto blinked, wide-eyed, before her lids narrowed in distaste. “Tokyo’s made you more sarcastic, (Surname), I don’t like it.”

“My lack of presence has made you soft, Fuyutsuki, I don’t like it.”

They crossed the street in unison, the blinking green light of the pedestrian crossing guiding them across. The streets were full of commuters, but the girls were in their own world, absorbed with a company they had not realised they’d missed.

(Name) exhaled deeply. Contentedly.

It was almost as if she was home.

 

* * *

 

Makoto still hadn’t been to Roppongi Hills.

Makoto hadn’t seen most of what Tokyo had to offer.

But for some reason Roppongi was high on her list.

“Tokyo looks so pretty!” She gushed as she leant on the glass, looking with wide eyes at the sprawling urban landscape. It stretched to beyond their peripherals, with a strange yet natural rise and fall of the skylines. Every few kilometres, a spike in the skyline would appear, the sign of a city emerging from the dust and reaching higher into the sky than the one before.

Her desire to see head to Roppongi as the first stop of her trip made sense. The Observation Deck located within Roppongi’s city centre in the Mori Art Museum was a popular tourist attraction, and the clear view of the prefecture – even in the haze and snow of winter – was enough to display the captivating charm of the country’s capital.

And in the previous four years of Makoto’s visits, the woman had only ever chosen to see things with a view. The Skytree, Odaiba, the Cerulean Tower Bar (which had cost her far too much money), the Imperial Palace, and Mt Takao where all places (Name) had found herself be dragged to over the course of her residency in the prefecture. Makoto only stayed for a night before she had to return to the normality of Osaka.

She found that an interesting idea; that Osaka was something normal when that city was just as lively, just as beautiful as Tokyo was. Maybe the Romantics were right; maybe no one would ever be happy with the view they saw every day.

(Name) smiled inwardly to herself; perhaps the choice made a little sense to her.

“Wanna have lunch somewhere else? The restaurants here are overpriced and aren’t filling.” She inquired, noticing the way her companion pouted softly and pressed her hand against her stomach. Makoto must have tried to cover up a growl; how long had it been since she’d eaten?

“I’m sure anything on those menus barely put a dent in your pocket.” Makoto teased as she put on an air of confidence, bumping the older woman’s shoulder. (Name) rolled her eyes. As if she couldn’t tell when she was faking.

“I run a small business funded by the words I write, Makoto-”

“You’re a bestselling author with fans all over Japan (Name)-”

The writer nudged the other woman harshly, glancing around the room to see if anyone had heard her.

“I’d rather not get mobbed today, thank you very much. I kind of want to go vaguely unbothered today.” No one was looking their way, but (Name) swore she could feel someone train their eyes on to her.

“Wanting to go unbothered, and yet you’re hosting me, huh?” Makoto wiggled her eyebrows.

“I’m regretting my decision in inviting you, honestly.”

(Name) turned on her heel and began walking towards the elevators. She heard Makoto’s signature cackle, not before the sound of the woman’s shoes thump against the carpet of the observation deck and then clack against the tile of the elevator hallway.

 

* * *

 

“Y’know your dad came to visit my family during the holidays.”

(Name) frowned at the mention of her father. “What’d he want?”

Makoto shrugged. “He dropped off some rice cakes, said he was just coming to say hi to my parents, but I could tell he was going to ask if I’ve heard from you.”

“And what’d you say?”

Makoto paused to chew a bite of tofu, animatedly staring at her with comically wide eyes. (Name) refrained from smiling at the very serious topic. She garbled out a sentence after she swallowed.

“I told him that you were doing fine and he had nothing to worry about... And if he really wanted to know he should just talk to you or visit you himself.”

The writer’s mouth formed a frown, deep lines etching themselves across the supple skin of her face. “You better not have told him where I live; it’s bad enough that you gave him my landline.”

“I mean, you don’t even _use_ your landline – and you’re the only (Surname) (Name) in the country, he was bound to find it in the Yellow Pages or something.”

“Did you tell him where I lived?”

Makoto scoffed and waved her chopsticks at her. “Of course not! I may want you to talk to your dad but I’m not going to do anything without your consent. I’m a friend, not an asshole.”

“You tend to toe that line with the bullshit you pull, Fuyutsuki...” The writer hummed, poking at her pork. “I’m not hungry anymore, the old man ruined my appetite and he’s not even here.” She grumbled, pushing the plate closer to Makoto who happily took it from her grasp.

The ravenette popped a piece of the meat into her mouth, smiling as the rush of spice coated her tongue quickly.

“He’s trying, (Name)-chan.”

“Twenty years too late, Makoto-chan.”

“He misses you.”

“He misses the money.”

“I mean, with the way your books are received it’d be weirder if he didn’t.”

_How many money comments had she made today?_

“God you’re worse than Mattsun, I swear.”

“Speaking of-”

“Gay and taken.”

“Are you sure?”

“Did I win the Gunzo?”

Makoto huffed at the girl across the table. She dropped her chin up on top of her folded arms and stared grumpily at her companion, her left hand still poised with chopsticks. “You just need to find someone too, (Name). Maybe it’ll make your life more interesting.”

 _Ah, here’s the lecture_.

“I don’t need romance,” (Name) asserted strongly, “I need to write my books.”

“You need to _relax_! I can’t keep coming out to Osaka whenever you get bored or whenever you stop replying to messages! We need to find someone to keep you in check, or to keep you entertained or something... It’s not healthy locking yourself away from days at a time.” Makoto reasoned, gesticulating with her chopsticks as if pointing at a screen.

Makoto meant well, (Name) knew that. But when the former wanted to push the boundaries and walls the latter had built up and strengthened, she would stop at nothing until they had begun to crumble.

(Name) needed to end this before she could get a leg up.

“Can you please stop lecturing me for a bit?” She exhaled deeply, shaking her head. “It seems like the only reasons you come here are to get me to pay for things and to lecture me about out I’m doing things wrong.”

“Well obviously you are, and at least you acknowledge it. Acceptance is the first step to recovery.”

(Name) froze. Doctor Nakamura had said those exact words in their very first session together.

 _Topic change, right now_.

“How are you doing? How’s that internship you got going?” Makoto was a budding journalist, and her most recent escapades involved her interning at a minor office for a magazine in Osaka – nothing to grand, but it was enough to give her experience and an industry in after she graduated.

“Nothing much has changed... It’s still as boring as it usually is.”

“But you’re engaged now.” (Name) pointed out, watching as a hue of red flushed up her friend’s neck and settled on to her cheeks and across the ridge of her nose. It seems she was right, nothing much had changed, it was still relatively easy to poke and prod the woman into the right direction, into the right corner.

“Yeah, well...” She poked at her tofu. “It’s been a few years; it’d be weird not to be engaged.”

“I haven’t met the guy either.”

“(Name)-”

“All I’m saying is that if he hasn’t read my book then I don’t want you marrying him.”

Makoto choked on her spit, coughing as her face plunged into a deep crimson. After a minute she gasped, air rushing down her throat loudly.

“Tokyo’s changed you.” She said with faux concern, hand thumping against her sternum to clear her windpipe again.

(Name) shrugged. “Just want to know if he reads good literature.”

“How is your literature ‘good’?”

“He hasn’t read my book, has he?”

Makoto looked down, embarrassed. (Name) smirked.

“He’s a movie nut, not a bookworm; don’t hold it against him when you meet him.”

“All I’m hearing is ‘He thinks that the movie is always better than the book’ and frankly I don’t want my godchildren being around that kind of blasphemy.”

“(Name)~”

The writer laughed at the ravenette’s whine. She picked up her drink and took a short swig. Just water today; she had a guest to entertain and Makoto wasn’t aware of how _intense_ (Name)’s drinking habits had become.

She blamed it on the culture. Definitely not the burnout.

“Any idea on when I’m gonna meet this guy?” She inquired as she tapped the rim of the glass. “I want to at least put a name and a face on this mystery man.”

All the writer knew was that Makoto’s fiancé was two years older than her and was an upperclassman from her university. He was a standard government worker, nothing too fancy, and had met the woman at a group dinner during his final year, her second. He proposed at Christmas when their families had met.

(Name) was sceptical but remained mum; if Makoto was happy then who was she to judge? At least one of them had something going for her.

“When’s the next time you can come down to Osaka?”

The writer tilted her chin up, attempting to look down on the other woman and weasel out her intentions. Makoto knew she hated travelling, and she knew that (Name) would happily host both her and her partner if they needed – she could even pay for a nice hotel – hell _he_ could probably pay for it himself if he was as highly accredited as Makoto had told her.

“What’s your angle?”

“No angle,” Makoto shook her head, “I just want you to come home once in a while when you don’t have to work, y’know?” She chomped on another bit of tofu. “And besides, we need to start planning together; I have to make sure my maid-of-honour looks shittier than me in her bridesmaid dress.”

(Name) choked on air and stared with stunned eyes and an open mouth.

“ _That’s_ how you’re going to ask me? Fucking really? What are you? A petty fifteen year old?”

Makoto nodded with a grin, “I’m going to make you wear the ugliest shade of pink I can think of – like old lady pink, or beige or something. Or like baby vomit green. Look you just need to look like crap so that I can look like a princess.”

She couldn’t help but roll her eyes, and the laughter flooded her senses and washed over her anxieties a little more.

At least she was no longer inquiring about _her_ life.

That was too much of a close call.

 

* * *

 

After having dinner with the old Karasuno seniors, Oikawa realised he really only had a few friends.

Iwa-chan, Makki-Makki, Mattsun, Tetsu-chan, Tarou-chan.

And that was fine. Maybe.

He didn’t need a lot of friends – he didn’t _have time_ for a lot of friends. The Olympics wouldn’t wait around for him to talk to people he had known for a good portion of his life!

Iwa-chan always seemed to be around, even if Oikawa didn’t want him to be. And he couldn’t avoid Tetsu-chan or Tarou-chan if he tried; they lived a few blocks away and were on the same teams. Makki-Makki made more of an effort these days, most likely because of the fact Writer-chan lived right next door, but beggars can’t be choosers. And Mattsun... Mattsun enjoyed sleeping and being alone for the most part, which was perfectly fine since Oikawa needed to recoverand handling both halves of the Hopeless Couple™ would have been torture.

So Oikawa took what he could get, and if having only a few good friends was what he got then it was what he got. He still had fans and attention and admirers to hold him down – even if the hoards of girls got a little annoying, it was still much appreciated and always welcomed.

More attention was more recognition, after all.

After returning to classes post the winter break, Oikawa found the balcony to be the only place he could truly take a load off. Every room of his apartment held a reminder he didn’t necessarily want or need, whether it was concerned with his thesis or university workload, or even the physiotherapy he was currently undertaking for his stupid knee. The balcony was spared, was refreshed every day due to the winter air that circled the fourteenth floor.

And that’s where he found himself, reclined with a blanket thrown over his legs and chest.

Oikawa found himself growing more and more fond of the quiet. It was concerning in the beginning, but as time passed he realised the beauty in sitting and resting and reflecting on things that he found important.

_Should I change conditioners so my hair is silkier?_

_Why does that girl in my tutorial always try and borrow my pens? Doesn’t she know I only ever carry one on my person?_

_When’s the last time I got a proper haircut?_

_Does that receptionist at the gym miss seeing me?_

The door opened and Oikawa felt his head turn on its own accord, ready to greet his neighbour with his usual burning stare.

Except it wasn’t the familiar (h/c)-haired woman.

Instead it was a dark haired beauty, with curves that went on for days and glow that most woman would kill to have. Japanese through and through, Oikawa could only describe her as a traditional, classic beauty.

Definitely not Writer-chan.

“Stupid view of stupid Bunkyo... Living the good life with such nice view.” She grumbled as she stepped on to the tile, being sure to shut the door behind her. “ _Oh I’m just a small business owner, I don’t make that much money, I’m just as broke as the next university student_ \- my ass! Look at this view! This must have cost a fortune!”

Oikawa stifled a laugh. “I wouldn’t be surprised if she actually owned the apartment rather than rented like the rest of us~”

The woman yelped, grabbing at her chest where her heart was as she turned to see the setter sitting there.

“Yahoo~”

“You scared the shit out of me, oh my God...” The stranger sighed with a smile, fanning her face with her free hand. It didn’t make a difference to the twinge of red settling at the tops of her ears.

“Sorry~ I didn’t mean to scare you, you just sounded like you wanted someone to talk to.” He explained, leaning forward in his seat. “Pretty ladies should never be left alone at night, whether they’re grumpy about the view or enamoured by it.”

The woman fell further into the shade of red that coated her ears.

“And what’s your name, my dear?”

Oikawa noticed the ring on her finger.

“Fuyutsuki Makoto.” She answered after a moment of contemplation. “And you?”

“Oikawa Tooru.” He answered in tune, immediately flashing a charming grin. She smiled back, and Oikawa knew that if she was single she would have immediately swooned. “And what are you doing in dear Writer-chan’s apartment?”

Makoto cocked her head to the side. “Writer-? Oh, you mean (Name)?”

Oikawa nodded, but tapped his fingers against his chin fake thought as he scrambled the remnants of his last meeting with Makki in search of her family name. (Surname). (Surname) (Name).

He sneered to himself. Even her name was likeable, was marketable. Makki really lucked out with that one.

“(Name)-chan has never mentioned you Oikawa-san, are you too close friends?”

He wanted to laugh, but instead he chose to wave his hand dismissively. “No, no, we’re just neighbours. I’ve only just recently moved in and we’ve been running into each other on the balconies a little too often.” Makoto nodded disheartened. “Why the long face?”

“Ah, no, I was just hoping she had made a few more friends out here... She has that Matsukawa guy, and apparently he’s really nice but she doesn’t tend to mention anyone else. I was just kind of hoping she wasn’t keeping to herself like she normally does.”

The setter frowned. “Writer-chan doesn’t talk about things, does she?”

Makoto nodded with a laugh. “God no, she avoids things like the plague. She thinks she can hide things from me but I know her better than she thinks.” The woman leant forward on the railing, resting her arms against the slab of concrete. “She’s gotten a lot better since the last time I saw her, and even then that was only six months ago.”

Oikawa hummed in fake interest, nodding with vigour as he mentally ruled out the dozens of possibilities he had formulated for the writer.

“So you’ve known her for a long time, I’m assuming. Childhood friends?”

“High school friends,” Makoto clarified with a grin, “we were both in college prep in first year and sat in the same aisle. I moved down a class later that semester but we still stayed friends. (Name) always helped me study for tests, and in return I gave her feedback for her stories. We’ve been inseparable ever since.”

“You live in Tokyo as well?”

“Osaka, I didn’t get accepted into any universities out here like (Name)-chan, but we still see each other and talk a lot. She’s surprisingly good with keeping in touch.”

“How interesting~” And for once Oikawa meant it, because he really did find it interesting.

The enigma of Writer-chan was simultaneously complex and simplified in the same conversation. Her mannerism slowly made sense, and yet her actions and decisions were still too hazy for him to understand.

“Was she like this in high school as well?”

Makoto hummed. “Oh yeah she was worse. She kept mainly by her lonesome because our cohort had gotten a little rowdier when she won the Gunzo. People started talking but she never engaged, she never did like confrontation...”

And then it hit him, a bolt from the blue that almost painted a devilish smile on his face.

Fuyutsuki-san was Writer-chan’s Iwa-chan; her pillar, her support, her one true friend who understood her, who connected to her on so many levels. And from the way Fuyutsuki-san was talking so concernedly about Writer-chan, he wondered if she was the only real friend the latter actually _had_.

But unlike Iwa-chan, this Fuyutsuki character had a weak disposition that was hidden by fake confidence that stemmed from the support of her best friend. If you took away Writer-chan, chances were you left the winter-moon child without a shield, without an identity.

The gears in his head began to turn in thought, clicking together at speed that rivalled his thoughts mid set.

He had some time to kill.

“So you must know about Writer-chan’s therapy sessions?”

Makoto tensed and slowly, slowly, turned to face the setter. “I beg your pardon?”

“Therapy,” he repeated, faking confusion, “like she’s starting to see a therapist for her problems...? I just thought you knew since you two are so close, that’s all...”

Makoto shook her head dismissively. She was in denial. “(Name) hates therapy; she can talk about her feelings when she wants to but she hates therapists. Said she never saw a point in talking about something she could write about.”

Oikawa nodded in fake agreement. “I see... But that doesn’t explain why I overhear her and someone else talk about sessions and her problems every time they come home from a session...”

The woman locked herself into place. “Someone... else?”

He clicked his fingers. “It’s always Makki-Makki!” He tilted his head side to side. “Ah, what a good guy he is, always talking about how he’s willing to talk to her and making sure she gets home safely~”

The sliding door opened, and his infamous neighbour stepped out with a towel draped around her shoulders.

“Enjoying the view-” Her gaze met Oikawa’s, and he couldn’t help but smirk as her eyes widened in confusion. “Ah, Limpy, good to see you.”

The ravenette’s brown eyes flashed, igniting with something Oikawa could only describe as anger.

“You’re seeing a therapist?” Makoto asked, incredulous as she spun around to face the newcomer. “(Name) what the fuck? Why didn’t you tell me?”

The writer snapped her head back into view of Makoto, tilting her head to the side.

“Huh-”

“Do you really not trust me enough to talk about your problems? I tell you _everything_ , the least you could do is reciprocate the trust I have in you!”

(Name) stopped drying her hair and raised her hands dismissively.

“It’s not a big deal, it’s just-”

“That’s not what Makki thinks Writer-chan.”

“It’s not your business Limpy.” The writer growled, glaring over the ravenette’s shoulder. “Seriously, Makoto, I’m just seeing her about burnout, nothing major. I just needed some advice on getting back into writing.” She explained slowly.

“Burnout?”

“You remember that one story I published in the Gunzo in second year, right? The one where the main character had no motivation for continuing into university? They had burnout syndrome; and I so do I. And, like the character, I’m getting professional help because that’s the best way to solve it, yeah?”

Makoto nodded, obviously recalling the story the wrier had been talking about.

“See? Not important? It wasn’t enough to stress me out that much, and I’m already doing a lot better. You saw how I was today...”

Ah, she was diffusing the situation.

‘Oh no, we can't have that.'

“But Makki-Makki said that he’s worried about your mental health, Writer-chan~” Oikawa continued, pursing his lips into the familiar fake pout. “He said he told your therapist he’s concerned about what you do when your alone, about what happened before you became a writer~”

Makoto’s spine stiffened, forcing her to stand stock still, arms glued to her sides like logs. “Your mental health?”

She cast a quick look at the setter angrily before letting it fade away to a neutral expression.

“My therapist just wanted to see if the root was something more personal. It’s not, we’ve determined, it’s just the stress from my contract that caused the burnout.”

Oikawa cocked his head to the side, the action taunting and unnoticed by the stranger in between them. That was a lie, and Writer-chan knew that she was lying. There was something going on, and he wanted in on it.

“(Name) we’re friends; you know you can talk to me about anything.” Makoto murmured, letting her shoulders relax as she watched her friend nod eagerly.

“Of course I know, but I’m handling it.”

“She even told her editor and he told me she doesn’t even consider them friend-”

“You wanna butt out, neighbour, or do you enjoy sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong?” She hissed, the words striking him across the face with venom he had never seen before.

There she was, the real Writer-chan.

“Wait, you’re kidding me..?” Makoto shot a look over her shoulder at Oikawa, who merely nodded in response. Understanding flashed in her eyes, and Oikawa noticed the writer visibly flinch, as preparing for a physical impact. “ _Makki_ as in _Hanamaki_? Her editor, _Hanamaki_? So you tell _Hanamaki_ you need help but you don’t bother to tell me? Your _best friend_? (Name) what the hell?!”

“I- Makoto, calm down please, I can explain.”

“Uhuh, I bet you can you asshole-”

“Makoto-!”

The brunet drowned them out, watching with a twisted sense of amusement as the scene unravelled before his very eyes. He’d waited too long for this, had wasted too much time ponder and piecing together bare fragments of clues for answers when it had been staring him in the face from the moment they first encountered each other.

Oikawa’s eyes widened and he licked his lips. Hungry.

 _There it was_ , he thought, _the weakness_.

Writer-chan enjoyed being in control of things – even the people she cared for most in her life. And if things went astray, well, she’s always quick to backpedal, to flee.

 _To run_.

His thoughts were interrupted as he heard the opening of the door, and he returned to his senses just in time to see Fuyutsuki-san shoulder barge the writer out of the way and slam the door behind her, making a quick escape from the apartment.

Writer-chan stood stunned, unmoving, with a glazed expression on her face.

It was all too amusing.

“Oh dear Writer-chan...” He cocked his head to the side, gloating and goading the same way he’d do to Tobio-chan. “Maybe I should have said anything... But then again Makki said I could talk to you about it.”

The writer’s head snapped up and in his direction. “What?”

He hummed. “Makki-Makki told me all about your sessions,” he lied, “and I just thought it was important that your best friend knew as well... It’s only fair, isn’t it?” He tutted and clicked his tongue. “But I guess that you messed that up... For someone who apparently talks to her often, you sure didn’t want Fuyutsuki-san to know just how messed up you really are.”

And there, in that moment the sentence left his lips, Oikawa watched the last of the woman’s restraint snapped. He saw the look in her eyes, the flash of determination mixed with something he couldn’t put his finger on. He clocked the way her fingers tightened into balls, the way she locked her knees and squared her shoulders as if preparing for a fight-

“Coming from the man whose career is over because he doesn’t want to admit he fucked up, that’s really fucking rich.”

The words slapped him in the face harshly, and he physically felt himself recoil from the blow. His mind flared red.

“What did you say...?”

“You heard,” she responded with the same malicious tone he dished out to her, “you sit and you wallow and ask for pity from everyone you look at because you’re afraid of being weak, afraid that no one will take you seriously if you ask for help.”

“Don’t act like you know me-”

“But I do know you! And it’s true, isn’t it?” She interjected, leaning forward as she raised her voice. “You haven’t denied it! You know you only have yourself to blame for whatever the fuck you’re going through!”

She was seething, she was seeing red, and Oikawa knew that she wouldn’t be satisfied until he was hurting in the same way he was. He caught the thought as it passed through her mind.

 _Hit the nail on the head_.

“You want recognition, right? You want to be praised and appreciated like the narcissist ass you are, right? A ‘good job’ or a ‘nice work’ or a ‘wow, you’re so talented’ – and you want to hear it from someone that matters, someone with stakes in you. Think that’ll equate to your own self worth? That someone, magically, that you’ll be enough for everyone in the goddamn world? Newsflash Limpy, being enough doesn’t mean you’re automatically respected.”

Her lips were pulled into a tight line as she spoke, and her eyes narrowed into slits as she glared hard enough to plunge daggers into his flesh.

“Sometimes being enough means you’re easier to use, and even easier to _throw away_.”

And then there was silence.

Writer-chan stalked back into her apartment quickly, slamming the sliding door shut on her way out to chase after the woman who left not too long ago.

And in that moment he was truly alone.

And his stomach felt a little heavier than it did from when they first stepped out on to the balcony, as if his liver had been crushed after an intense night out.

But unlike a wild night, Oikawa found himself sobering all too quickly, and let his gaze linger for much longer than he would willingly admit.

Finally, _finally_ , he recognised the look in her eye.

Panic.

Sheer terror.

Memories of that day in middle school rushed through his mind, a torrent of images that drowned out his other thoughts and consumed him. And then his younger facade was replaced with a vision of _her_ ; wild-eyed and staring at him with all the hatred in the universe.

The hairs stood up at the back of his neck, and a pang of pain shot through his knee.

Oh.

 _That_ was Fake-kawa.

 

* * *

 

The last bullet train bound to Shin-Osaka left the terminal at Tokyo at ten to midnight.

Taking the subway from Bunkyo took twenty minutes, and even then Makoto would have to run through Tokyo Central to the shinkansen platforms which were on the opposite side to the subway terminals. That alone took ten minutes at the most. Then there was the matter of buying a ticket-

Unless Makoto jumped on the unreserved carriage, then all she had to do was book it to the terminal and run on before the doors closed-

‘Never mind’, (Name) thought suddenly, ‘she’s still waiting for the bus.’

The (h/c)-haired woman had barely clocked her best friend at the bus stop on the corner of her street and refrained from calling out to her. She took a step forward. Makoto looked up with wide eyes and immediately moved out from under the shelter.

She was making a run for it.

There were always taxis on the main street and if she made it, she could be at the station must faster than (Name) could have anticipated. She would make the last train to Shin-Osaka.

That couldn’t happen.

“Makoto!”

(Name) sprinted forward, lurching with a velocity that made her dizzy. Makoto took off running as well and, despite being taller, the snow that rested on the footpath held her back. That and the silver suitcase that bounced up and down rapidly against the uneven surface.

There was still a chance she could catch up.

“Just let me explain, you idiot!”

“You have nothing to explain! I know my place!” Makoto yelled back over her shoulder, not bothering to spare a glance at the friend she was leaving behind in the dust.

(Name) breathed heavily, panting in and out through her mouth as she tried to catch up. She barely had any breath left in her lungs, and the frigid air whipped at her bare arms as she continued her assault forward. Makoto swung left around the end of the road, directly on to the main street. The writer sped up, her slipper clad feet pounding against snow and concrete as she whipped herself around the corner as well.

In the distance she saw the woman hunched over as a she spoke the driver of the black taxi she was stood beside. He was in the process of slamming the trunk down, and the writer caught a glimpse of the silver suitcase nestled away in the boot.

 (Name)’s heartbeat thundered in her eardrums.

 _Fuck_.

“Makoto!” She yelled, ejecting ever last bit of air that remained in her lungs and clung to her respiratory system. The ravenette didn’t bother looking back as she answered.

“Don’t talk to me ever again, (Surname)!”

And then she was gone, jumping into the taxi parked on to the side of the road. (Name) watched as the vehicle pulled away from the curb and disappeared into the night. 

Mejirodai was quiet at night. That was the norm for the residential area.

But for some reason it seemed a little more silent, a little lonelier.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Drama, drama~~~~  
> Fucking Fake-kawa~~~~  
> You can't have anything nice, can you~~~~  
> And Reader~~~~  
> You're just as a big of a shit as Fake-kawa~~~~
> 
> I wrote this much quicker than I initially anticipated so maybe that once-a-month schedule I mentioned early on isn't gonna be true. And yes, it is very much a Reader-centric chapter, but what'd you expect? This is a Reader fic and you guys need to know about your character aye? And this might be happening a bit too quickly but trust me, whether you like it or not, this had to happen now. 
> 
> All in all, this is the actual start of the story. Like, all the subplots and confrontations are gonna start happening after this; so get ready for longer chapters, more perspectives and a whole lot of emotions friends cause it's gonna be a ride.
> 
> Comments and kudos make working retail a little better so go ahead and leave some if you want ;)


	8. Spin Me a Tale

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “They’re literally the same person, Hiro, I swear...” Mattsun groaned as the silence threatened to engulf them. “Like, what kind of fucking luck do we have that got us stuck between two losers with insecurity problems the size of Jupiter?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tags have been updated and WILL be updated again for the next chapter! 
> 
> (more info in the endnote)

_ January, 2018 _

 

Oikawa Tooru was a master of making miracles under pressure.

When his team was in a pinch, he would always pull through.

There were hours of footage of it, a few dozen articles and news reports too.

It’s what he did, what he was best at.

But sitting face to face with Matsukawa Issei made him freeze in ways not even an international competition could.

And after a mere thirty seconds of contemplation, he realised this was not a pinch he could work around.

“It’s good to know you’re well enough to make terrible tea.”

Impossibly, Mattsun had also filled out more compared to their days at Seijoh – which above all else confused Oikawa to no end. His shoulders were still wide and squared off, with thick limbs that were as equally as long. He was taller, breaching the 190cm and still had a mane of untameable black, cow-licked hair and similarly thick eyebrows. Oikawa scowled into his cup, looking at the man perched on the other end of the couch, the familiar sleepy gaze expressing hints of amusement.

 “Still perpetually exhausted?”

“Oh, eternally. I can’t wait for the sweet release of death, if it could come any swifter then I’d be stoked.” Mattsun rotated the cup in his grasp, animatedly inspecting the design. “What’s the damage then? What’s the recovery timeline like?”

Complementary to the amusement was a request; ‘Indulge Me’, it said.

So he did; most of the information regarding his injury and the success of the surgery had been released by the Head Trainer of Ryuujin Nippon, so if Mattsun had heard those details then he didn’t show it.

“I’m not dead yet,” the brunet continued, “and I’m doing three rehabilitation sessions a week. They’re going pretty well, and if I keep going at the pace I am at then I might be okay for FIVB.”

“And the Asian Games?”

That conversation weighed heavily in his mind, the words from his both trainer and physiotherapist echoing in a taunting manner. The Asian Olympiad was being held Jakarta that year in August, and though there were reports of last minute changes to the roster of sports, volleyball was still scheduled for both the men’s and women’s division. There was once a hope for him to compete, Coach Nagakaichi had mentioned it to him in passing after a session the previous week, but after speaking with the trainers the hope dissipated. Their concerns no longer rested with success; only with his knee, and the fine line he walked between speedy recovery and major setback.

Oikawa glowered. “Apparently too much of a reach.”

Mattsun gave him a pointed look, “is that why you decided to be a Fake-kawa at (Surname)?”

The setter frowned.

_Did everyone know about Fake-kawa except him?!_

The middle blocker remained still, staring intensely at the setter. Oikawa narrowed his eyes at the brief concern that flashed across the other male’s face.

“I thought it was strange that you came to visit without warning me...” Oikawa hummed, leaning back in his place and folding his arms over his chest. “How’d you find out?”

“Hiro told me.” He answered plainly.

“You’re worried about Writer-chan.” Mattsun’s lips curved upwards ever so slightly.

“I’m not worried, Hiro is.”

The brunet nodded. That was understandable really; Makki was her editor, the person she spent the most time with, and if anyone was to be concerned with the wellbeing of a writer then it would logically be the editor.

What the editor was worried about, however, was another question entirely.

As was Mattsun’s own relationship with her.

“How do you know her?”

The middle blocker paused and sipped the tea, cringing at the aftertaste.

“I transferred to Todai last year.”

It was short and simple – most of Mattsun’s answers tended to be given with an air of blatant obviousness. Often it was inappropriate, this time not so much. Oikawa recalled a vague image of his friend at the last Intercollegiate – _his_ last Intercollegiate. Mattsun had indeed been wearing a blue Tokyo U uniform rather than the usual white of Sendai. Their paths never officially crossed, Todai always tended to lose to Tsukuba before they got a chance at Chuo.

“I had to do at least one lit course for my degree, and since I suck at the whole studying thing I got recommended a tutor. (Surname) was forced into accepting by my professor since she’s been top of the entire cohort for literature. And by that point, Makki had just been assigned to her at Kodansha.”

“That’s a big coincidence, huh?”

“Mhm. She started complaining about this new editor she had who liked to barge into her apartment suspiciously close to when she was in the bath.” Oikawa laughed. Outside of volleyball, Makki had the worst time; a superpower of sorts – the ability to mentally scar himself with an image he really shouldn’t have seen.

“Sounds familiar.”

“S’what I thought-” _Of course you can recognise your boyfriend_ “-and it turns out it was Makki and we started complaining about shit other than my shitty literature skills.” The taller male wiped a fake tear away from his eye. “Truly, a friendship for the ages.”

It took every fibre of Oikawa’s being not to roll his eyes.

So her connections to his own little group ran deeper than just Makki; at this rate Iwa-chan would reveal some new information and turn the situation upside down.

“But enough about that,” Mattsun waved one hand while the other reached over to the table and placed the cup down, “you’ve probably already figured out why I’m here, so as long as you cooperate things won’t get hairy.”

Mattsun’s brown furrowed in slight concentration, never once letting his eyes waver from their target.

They’d never met on the court as competitors in a real match, but for once Oikawa understood why people tended to be weary of the middle blocker. The atmosphere vibrated around them with an intensity he’d never known before. Despite his exterior he was always _thinking_ – always analysing and waiting for you to slip up.

Oikawa spoke first.

“ _I’ve_ done nothing wrong.”

“I’m not saying that.”

“I’m not apologising.”

“I’m not asking you to.”

“You implied it.”

“When?”

“Just then, Mr ‘Things-Won’t-Get-Hairy-If-You-Cooperate’.”

“That’s not what that implies – it implies that I don’t want to yell at you when you can do all the talking and make my life easier.”

“An interrogation?”

“Maybe.”

“So you’re forcing me to talk.”

“That’s not why I’m here.”

“Then why are you here?”

“You should know, Chuo Boy.”

“I’m not apologising.”

“Why do you insist on not apologising if you know you’ve done nothing wrong?”

 _Fuck_.

Mattsun smirked triumphantly, reclining back as if they were in his apartment rather than Oikawa’s. The latter puffed his cheeks out, remaining mum. He wasn’t going to let Mattsun string him along this easily – he was Oikawa Tooru for fucks sake, he was _smarter_ than this.

The former sighed, tapping his bicep impatiently. He had him cornered, and he knew that every word he spoke in the next few minutes would get him closer and closer to making a promise he couldn’t – no – _wouldn’t_ keep.

There was no way he was apologising.

He’d done nothing wrong.

So he stayed silent, maintaining eye contact with an unwavering nerve that sent chills down Mattsun’s spine.

He wouldn’t relent. Not now, not ever, and not for a person like his neighbour.

The taller male frowned and leant forward, elbows pressed into his knees as he attempted to look a little more intimidating than he already did.

“Look Oikawa, whatever you’re tryna get at with (Surname) you might want to reconsider. It’s in your best interest not to fuck with any of that.”

The setter arched his brow at the middle blocker. “Oh? You know from experience?”

“A little. But any normal person can tell that – and to think, you have more experience with the ladies than both Hiro and I put together, and yet you’ve been in the shit with this one.”

Oikawa scowled. Mattsun smirked deviously. “Rude.”

“Not as rude as you were.”

“Not as rude as she was.”

“Eh, you attacked, she defended. That’s basic volleyball, my man.”

“So you admit that this is my fault.”

“The more you insist that it isn’t, the more and more I believe it.”

“Mattsun can you cut the crap? Just get to the point.”

The middle blocker rolled his eyes.

“I want answers, Oikawa.” Mattsun admitted, his intentions floating into the air around them. “You’re normally so civil with the ladies - even if they are annoying - so I don’t understand what the fuck’s gone wrong with this one.”

Oikawa scoffed. “I did exactly what I needed to do,” he answered as he leant back, “I needed to figure her out. The opportunity to do that just presented itself to me.”

“What, you mean the opportunity to ruin her life?”

The brunet male laughed bitterly. “How can I ruin something that’s already been planned from the very start?” He inquired. “She’ll be fine; if anything this gives her more to write about.”

And then Oikawa saw it; the final string snapped in Mattsun’s mind and tore apart whatever composure the man had been maintaining ever since he walked through that door.

“You’re kidding...” He breathed out in sheer disbelief. “You’re fucking with me. There is no way you are jealous of someone who is in a completely different field of work from you, Oikawa!”

The setter frowned angrily. “I am _not_ jealous of Writer-chan-”

“Then call her by her name.” Mattsun deadpanned. “You don’t call anyone you don’t respect by their name even if you know it. You know her name, address her as such. Address her with the same goddamn respect you demand from everyone else and _then_ maybe I will believe that you aren’t jealous.”

Oikawa paused, mouth still open mid sentence as the revelation reeled through his mind. Matsukawa Issei was smarter than Oikawa originally thought. Damn.

In his silence, Mattsun pressed his assault forward.

“Hiro’s been losing his mind over the fact he told you she’s been going through some shit, and cause of that he’s been feeling real guilty about it. Guilty Hiro is a Bad Hiro. And that guilt is justified knowing the type of person you are. You push and push and push and you don’t know when to stop because you have no sense of restraint, and one day it’s going to bite you so hard in the ass that no physical rehabilitation on this planet will be able to save you!"

“I’m only trying to push a few buttons-”

“ _She doesn’t need that, Oikawa!_ ” Mattsun groaned, annoyance surged through his veins. His eyes, though tired, showed the growing irritation that ebbed in his mind. “She doesn’t need you poking your stupid nose where it doesn’t belong, and she definitely doesn’t need you to project her insecurity on to her own!”

“I am _not_ insecure-”

“Yes you are!” The middle blocker raised his voice. “You always have been and at the rate you’re going you always will be!”

The ice that laced his words struck Oikawa deep, cutting his insides more than he would ever admit.

“I’m tired of watching you pretend that you are the epitome of success and stability when you just as broken and fucked up as the rest of us. You’ve gotta accept this bullshit, Oikawa, because the longer you go on like this, the more people you hurt and the more lonely you become.”

“What’s your point?” The words escaped his mouth in a strangled sentence, syllables all choked up from his saliva pooling on his tongue. “Why are you even here right now?”

“She’s in a different world Oikawa,” he answered, exasperatedly, “but she’s exactly like you are.”

The setter tilted his head. “No she-” Mattsun stared at him stoically, eyes slowly pooling with exhaustion. “Sorry.”

He wasn’t. Not really. But if Mattsun caught on to that, then he didn’t comment.

“All I’m saying is that you gotta start thinking about what you say and who you say it to. (Surname) doesn’t have that weird mental fortitude that Ushijima has, and she doesn’t have the same wide-eyed respect for people as Kageyama does for you.”

 He blinked once before settling on a reply. “So it’s my fault?”

Air passed through Mattsun’s clenched teeth as if it was being sucked out by a vacuum. “You know what, yeah, it kind of is. Granted I think you can’t shoulder all of the blame, but if your subconscious keeps jumping to that conclusion then who am I to deny your true feelings?”

And then there was silence, again, and it clung to Oikawa’s body like a cape. It was as if the world had crowned him King Asshole and blessed him with a smack from reality he had not ever considered.

He didn’t answer. He couldn’t.

Mattsun continued.

“Hiro never told me what exactly he said to you, nor do either of us know exactly what you said that night. All Hiro got was (Surname) yelling about you being an ass and how there was no point in writing ever again. And that may seem really overdramatic over something you don’t think is serious but trust me it _is_. (Surname) was finally in a decent place after the break and now’s she’s regressed beyond square one because you couldn’t keep your trap shut. She won’t even talk to Hiro about her book and it’s getting released soon, and if she turns into a bigger recluse than she already is then that’s dangerous. Like yeah, her books will sell; what of it? That doesn’t matter if she isn’t of a sound mind and has no one to look out for her. She’s a writer, a damn good one, and she’s had to work for the things she’s sown and reaped just like you have. It’s been hard for her to get to where she’s gotten. Just because you aren’t mature enough to face your bullshit head on and she is doesn’t mean you have the right to try and make her less than you.

“And I’m not saying your life hasn’t been hard – hell by comparison, her one has been pretty cushy too – but you’ve gotta stop thinking about people as pawns you use in your little Game of Life. Not everyone’s gonna comply, not everyone wants the same thing, and not everyone is the writer who lives next door and does the same thing to the people she meets.

“I just don’t want you doing something you regret. Like, if you kept pushing that night then who knows what she could have done y’know? Hiro hasn’t heard from her in weeks, and if she’s gotten worse than what she was before that’s not a good sign. That’s somebody’s daughter man, somebody’s friend – _my_ friend.”

Oikawa’s chest tightened.

“Am I not your friend?”

Mattsun looked at him with wide eyes, full of disbelief. Oikawa didn’t think they’d open that much.

“Really? That’s what you got from all that? That I’m not your friend?”

 _Ah, selfish_.

“I-no, I mean-”

“I know what you mean, Oiks, trust me.” Mattsun ran a hand down his face. “I just want you to pick up what I’m putting down, yeah? I did not spend my one day off from life for you to ignore me.”

Mattsun shifted in his place, finally relaxing out of sheer fatigue from their conversation.

“I’m not asking you to apologise, hell I’m not even _expecting_ you to apologise... Knowing (Surname) she won’t accept it either; forgive and forget isn’t really in her vocabulary. I just want you to be move civil with her; to start thinking a little less like a setter and a little more like a human. And maybe, just maybe, people will start to genuinely like you for you rather than for what they think you actually are.

“I can’t do this every single time you decide to ruin someone’s life. I don’t have the time for it, or the mental stability to spell out what’s right and what’s wrong. You’re an adult, you’re about to graduate from a prestigious school, and you’re one of the smartest setters Japan has seen on an Olympic team in years. You can be civil, even if it’s for 10 minutes at a time... You did it for three years straight at Seijoh and you sure as hell can do it now.”

The two men sat there silently, still meeting each other’s gazes. Oikawa wavered and looked away in thought, if only for a few seconds.

But those seconds felt like an eternity, an infinity that stretched to the horizons and then beyond.

His mind reeled at the words as the left his friend’s mouth, swirling around his head like a hurricane that thrashed against the sides of his skull. His temples pounded as he tried to absorb every ounce of information that was thrown his way.

Though Mattsun claimed to be a neutral person in fights, it was clear that in this moment he was standing in the middle ground. No matter how he looked at it, Matsukawa was not on his side. He had been leaning, had chosen he side that he believed to be the victim. He was going against him.

And maybe there was substance to it, Oikawa thought. Mattsun thought things through more than other people; he tended to remain silent in points of conflict and only picks sides when he knew everything. Often he didn’t, and even when he did the choice he made was logical and well thought out. So to see him as something other than a neutral state was unsettling, and it made Oikawa thing as to how much he had matured over time.

He said he wanted to help, but the undercurrent of disapproval in his words didn’t sit well with Oikawa. They were judging him, were scrutinising his every moment and weighing out their options to leave him in the dust for someone who appeared to need them more.

Which was bullshit.

Because Oikawa needed them more.

His train of thought was interrupted suddenly, as if someone slammed on the breaks too hard.

“You’re a good guy, Oikawa – I mean, it’s questionable but you prove yourself every now and then.”

Oikawa frowned. “You know you can compliment someone without making it backhanded.”

“Eh, Hiro has lost a week of sleep which means I’ve lost a week of sleep,” Mattsun rolled his shoulders, “you deserve it.”

And then he stood up abruptly, stretching out his sore limbs. Oikawa heard the popping of a few bones in his neck, and the middle blocker sighed in content. They locked eyes again for a moment; Oikawa couldn’t read him.

“You’ve got a bit to think about,” he announced, “I’ll leave you to it.”

Oikawa watched as he started making his way to the door, leaving the injured male behind in his wake. Oikawa scrambled up, using one of his crutches to help stabilise himself. By the time he reached the hallway, Mattsun was already leaning against the door, shoving one large foot into the corresponding sneaker.

He needed to know.

“Y’know, for someone who isn’t worried, you sure like to make your point about her.”

Mattsun shrugged, continuing to tap his shoe on. “Yeah well, we’re friends.” He glanced at the setter from the corner of his eye. “After the bullshit you pulled, I think I’m all she’s got left.”

Another wave of chills ran down his spine.

Oikawa fucked up.

He needed to make this better.

“Are you sure you didn’t want something to eat?”

Mattsun shook his head as he finished sliding on the remaining shoe. “I’m good, I was gonna nick something from (Name).”

Oikawa titled his head, eyes wide with surprise.

Mattsun never called anyone other than Makki by their first name.

“(Name)?”

He hummed a little dismissively, as if he hadn’t just referred to her solely by her family name for the past hour. “Yeah,” he answered as he straightened his back out, reaching his full 190cm height. “I need to talk some sense into her as well and I can’t do that on a full stomach; I’d get too sleepy and shit wouldn’t get done.”

Oikawa took a hesitant step towards the door. “You’re lecturing her as well?”

“Why the fuck wouldn’t I? She’s in the shit with me just as much as you are.”

And then he was gone, pulling the door shut behind him without any other form of farewell.

Oikawa wasn’t sure as to how long he stood there, nor was he sure when his medication began to wear off.

What he was sure of was that maybe he was over thinking things a bit too much.

The lingering look in Mattsun’s eyes made Oikawa certain of that.

He hadn’t lost the Hopeless Couple™, not yet.

But he could make this better, maybe.

He just needed to figure it out.

 

* * *

 

(Surname) (Name) had always been good at hiding.

In recent years with an editor like Hanamaki, she had gotten exponentially better.

But if there was one thing Matsukawa Issei had learned about the woman, it was that she couldn’t hide forever. To hide was exhausting, taxing, and a pain in her side.

So as he entered the seemingly empty apartment, he realised he had timed his visit very well.

She hadn’t even tried this time.

He treaded lightly, his usually heavy feet passed with an ease he only knew in this apartment. As he waded through the stale air, he caught the faint sound of sheets rustling and redirected his course to the noise.

Bedroom.

_At least she’s not hiding in the linen closet this time around._

Mattsun headed to her roo and opened the door, no longer caring about the stealth he previously assumed.

In the light of the dim room, he caught the outline of her body sprawled out on top of her covers. Her head was buried between both pillows that rested at the head of her bed, and her arms were tucked underneath the layer of fluff.

She didn’t look up at him.

“I should confiscate your key. Lord knows both you and Hanamaki don’t need one each.”

“What will happen when you’re inside and dead and we aren’t together with our hypothetical one key?”

“You’re always together.”

Mattsun gestured to the empty space around him.

“That’s Hanamaki’s shirt, isn’t it?”

The male furrowed his eyebrows together and he huffed out a soft “Touché” before moving further into the bedroom.

The bed dipped, and (Name) felt a heavy weight drop across her lower back. She craned her head back to see Mattsun laying there, arms splayed out perpendicular to his torso while his head rested firmly atop of her body.

“You good?”

“Fantastic, tired, very ready for death.”

“Preaching to the choir, man.” She answered in agreement. (Name) rolled over slightly, Mattsun’s head no longer resting on her back but across her stomach instead. He hummed.

“That’s better.”

“I thought so. You hungry?”

“Just sleepy.”

“But you get hungry when you’re sleepy.”

“Yeah well, my stomach isn’t feeling it right now.”

The writer pouted. “I’ve got ramen.”

“You always have ramen.”

“Very true, but it’s the extra spicy kind.”

Mattsun nodded. “I’ll have some when I’m done.”

The words set her off slightly, blaring soft warning bells as they registered in her mind.

Mattsun was good at plenty of things.

Doing nothing was one of them.

Every few weeks he would visit her, with food on occasion but mainly empty-handed, and do absolutely nothing.

Which was awesome. A pleasure.

Because for some reason doing nothing with Mattsun negated the passage of time and let (Name) exist.

No deadlines.

No commitments.

Just _nothing_.

And of all the things she needed at that moment, his company was high up on the list.

But this was different; a different type of nothing that concerned her and put her on edge. And as much as she wanted to ignore the warning signs she could not bring herself to.

Mattsun knew he had to do this differently to Oikawa, even if he didn’t want to. With Oikawa there was always a solution – always a set answer and path he could travel down to get what he wanted. There were too many possibilities when it came to (Name), too many variables that neither he nor she could control. Especially in situations like this, where her mentality was skewed and only the roll of a die could determine where on the spectrum of ‘Okay’ she landed.

He couldn’t press; he had to tread lightly, carefully, had to dance around the questions and answers like she tended to do.

Which, he admitted, would be hard.

Because how does on kite the master of avoidance?

He hummed mentally; by going for the kill.

“How’s therapy?”

“Therapeutic.”

“How’s Hiro?”

“Hanamaki-y.”

“And the book?”

“Book-ish.”

“The release.”

“End of next month.”

“What’d Oikawa say?”

“Who’s Oikawa?”

Mattsun clicked his tongue.

“Don’t try and weasel your way out of this one so don’t bother. I’m not Takahiro.”

She frowned. “In my defence, I only learned his name after that encounter. I was referring to him as Limpy for the past few weeks.”

“Well now you know his name; what’d he do?”

She stayed quiet.

“Hiro’s sorry, y’know.” Mattsun rolled over on to his side so he could face her rather than the ceiling. He held his head up with his hand, elbow digging into the skin of her stomach. “He genuinely thinks you’re going to fire him.”

“He knows I’d never do it.” She admitted.

“And isn’t it telling that the man who knows you’d never fire him is now in fear of being laid off over something as petty as this.”

“It’s not petty-”

“It really is, (Name), you’re acting like a child by sinking to Oikawa’s level.”

She folded her arms across her chest in annoyance. “It’s not sinking if I was already at rock bottom.”

“But you weren’t about a week ago. You were finally climbing your way back up.”

“Yeah well, shit happens.”

Mattsun frowned. “(Name), you’re way too defensive for your own good.”

“I’m only defensive around assholes.”

“You think everyone’s an asshole.”

“I mean I have yet to be proven wrong, haven’t I?”

He ran a hand down his face exasperatedly. This one was going to be a long one.

“Did you at least want to tell me what happened? I can only help you so much through vague references and anger.”

And, much to his surprise, she did, with a vivid accuracy that made his head spin. She told him all about Fuyutsuki’s annual trip to Tokyo, the snippets of conversation she heard on the balcony and then Oikawa’s intervention in escalating a situation she was so close to diffusing.

Mattsun nodded along animatedly, silently taking in every detail she relayed to him.

By the end of it, he felt her deflate in defeat as she repositioned her arms around the bodies.

“She won’t talk to me, Issei. We’ve been friends for seven years and he’s gone and fucked it up because he can’t keep his head out of my business.” She sat up in the bed, pushing him off her stomach and on to her lap. “I have every right to be pissed at that Fuck-face-kawa.”

“And you have every right to be,” Mattsun agreed. “I’m just saying that he of all people shouldn’t get you riled up. Yeah, he’s a Fuck-face-kawa but so are you sometimes.”

Mattsun snickered to himself mentally. God, why were the different iterations of the man’s name so fucking funny?

“The only reason he knows is because Hanamaki told him.”

“He’s also told me, (Name).”

“But at least I _know_ you! I don’t know this Shittykawa guy! I don’t need another Shittykawa in my affairs; I already have Hisakawa at Kodansha!”

“Can you really blame Hiro though?” Mattsun inquired. “He’s scared that I’ll tell you what he says about you, and you won’t let him talk to you about your problems. You don’t entirely trust your therapist, and even if you did she’s not allowed to tell him things without your consent which, honestly, you’d never give. Oikawa is, unfortunately, a neutral third party... I’m surprised he didn’t go to him sooner over his concerns.”

“That didn’t give him the right to tell a random stranger about my issues! They’re _mine_ for a reason – he doesn’t need to be all up in my business because Hanamaki lets him in on one secret! It’s not fair!”

“But hasn’t told you about Oikawa’s situation?”

“Not in the same way-”

“But isn’t it still a bit hypocritical to be angry at him when you have every opportunity to be just as invasive as he is?”

“I haven’t stuck my nose into one of his friendships and ruined it to try and make a fucking point, now have I?”

No, she hadn’t. And she did have a point. Despite knowing, Mattsun knew (Name) wouldn’t act if Hiro didn’t want her to. She had a more sound judgment that the setter and it surprised him that she had actually responded to his intervention with the same amount of venom.

But from the look of her face, Mattsun knew that he had not adequately prepared for this scenario in particular.

“Seven years, Issei... And she won’t talk to me or return my calls or texts... She was all I had left back home but now...”

The middle blocker sighed as the words fell off her lips. It seemed that this dice didn’t stop at 1, but -200.

He sat up (reluctantly) and pulled her into a hug (willingly), arms around her shoulders and her head tucked under his chin.

“It’s my fault, isn’t it...?”

Mattsun blinked, silently thankful she couldn’t see how wide his eyes had become. Getting to admit that was far easier than he originally anticipated – and that rehearsed speech was for nothing.

“Not gonna lie, it kind of is.” He agreed, feeling her deflate even more against his chest. “But it’s not _entirely_ your fault.”

“But it’s still on me.”

“Of course, we all have a level of agency and responsibility in this world; you just tend to avoid yours more than most.”

Mattsun rubbed her back, his large hand taking up the entire space in between her shoulder blades. Her silence signalled for him to keep talking, and it almost made him freeze. She actually wanted advice.

“You tend carry your burdens and, I don’t know why, but you do it a lot and you forget that you aren’t alone in this world. I’ve only met Fuyutsuki-san once but she definitely seemed the type to listen wholeheartedly with no qualms or complaints. And I have no doubt in my mind that she knows why you do that and still willing stood by you unconditionally. So yeah, it’s kind of your fault for not telling her, for not being open... But that’s not something we change overnight – that’s what the therapy sessions are for.”

The (h/c)-haired woman tensed. “Doctor Nakamura is probably concerned...” (Name) hadn’t been back since the beginning of January; she had no motivation to return, not when those sessions were the reason her best friend was no longer speaking to her.

“So we can work on that whole Feelings debacle in the long run, but the Oikawa thing needs to be addressed now.”

The writer frowned.

“I’m not apologising.”

“I’m not asking you to.”

“I didn’t do anything wrong against him.”

“I’m not saying you did.”

“Yes you did.”

“No I didn’t.”

 _God they were exactly alike_.

“I said the whole thing was my fault, you didn’t entirely disagree so you must agree with that bit too.”

Mattsun clicked his tongue.

He hadn’t caught on to the insinuation in her earlier statement.

“You’ve gotta stop with that meta-writing bullshit,” he grumbled into the crown of her head, “not everyone is a writer who sees the words people speak in a bubble above their heads...”

“Friends for three years, Mattsun, you should be good at this. Hanamaki is, and you’re essentially one person at this point.”

“Yeah but see that’s your problem, isn’t it?” He inquired. “You expect people to know these things about you when you don’t even give them a fair shot at getting to know you for you are. You keep them at arms lengths and get angry when they don’t do what you like.”

He felt her frown. “S’not true.”

“Yes it is (Name). You enjoy controlling things... It’s your nature.”

The middle blocker paused, wondering for a moment as to how he should phrase his next few sentences.

“You do this thing, I don’t know if you’re aware of it fully, but you kind of compartmentalise people... You break them down into pieces and separate them from one another to try and figure out how they work. And you do it by looking at them and then you just... Do. You kind of live with that knowledge and use it when you want something to go a particular way by directing them the way you know they will travel down. You label people so easily... It’s a little off-putting if you ask me.

“And Oikawa? You can’t do that shit to Oikawa, (Name). He’s the exact same: he figures out what makes you tick and what your weaknesses are and then uses them to his advantage against you. For such an offensive setter, he’s also a defensive shit, and that means he’s petty as fuck too. And mix petty with his insecure narcissism and you get a really fucked up person you should not mess with under any circumstances. He’s a smart guy, but his self-doubt gets the better of him and he doesn’t tend to recognise himself when he sees it in someone else.”

The middle blocker’s silence spoke a thousand words.

 _A little bit like you in the beginning_.

“You’re used to being in control, and so is Oikawa. If you’re the one playing chess, Oikawa is the King on the board. You see life as a game; Oikawa will actually live it through.”

(Name) sat in silence, till wrapped up in his arms as she thought. She was very aware she did that; for the longest time she was sure it helped her write more realistic characters. But if what Mattsun said had held the tiniest grain of truth then she could see why that may be a problem.

Humans weren’t designed to be labelled – there was a fluidity that existed to human nature that triumphed over the man-made constraints that ruled over modern society.

And yes, she was used to breaking people down as closely to these labels as she could. And yes, she was used to an air of control over particular people and places. And yes, she had a sphere of influence like a motherland over satellite states.

But she had, in fact, never encountered someone like Limpy, who only seemed to mirror her every moment and thought with an identical one of his own.

It made sense that he would fear it, would act on instinct to try and destroy the competition.

It’s what she would do.

And maybe that’s why she was ready to accept the situation as her own cause; because she could clearly see herself reflected in her neighbour and recognise the insecurities he wore like a vice around his neck.

Mattsun tightened his arms ever so slightly.

“He’s a good friend, really. I spent three years of high school with that guy, and he’s had mine and Hiro’s back through it all. You don’t find people who are willing to put up with our bullshit-”

“So you admit its bullshit and that you should stop beating around the bush?”

“(Name).”

“Mattsun.”

She frowned at him. He wore and equally unimpressed expression.

“Oikawa is a person you’d want on your side; especially when he’s so similar to who you are compared to everyone else. You don’t want that trying to tear you down, and I know you couldn’t help this first encounter but trust me when I tell you that you could fix it for the next few.

“I know forgive and forget isn’t something you do but you should at least try to accept what’s happened. You’re going to work on talking to Fuyutsuki-san again, and I hope you’ll actually start to respond to Hiro again before the book is released. What’s stopping you from being the bigger person in this situation as well?”

She shrugged dismissively. There were a lot of things she could think of from the top of her head.

Her pride, namely.

His pride, too.

Were they worth it? Maybe not, but if he was anything like her then her pride was not something to be reckoned with.

The writer didn’t answer, and Mattsun was slightly thankful she didn’t retort in her usual manner.

“I want you to be okay, the both of you. You both have problems and you don’t need each other goading you while you try and make things better, yeah. It won’t end well, especially when you tend to push too far and when Oikawa escalates a situation. It won’t be healthy and one of you won’t make it out alive.”

In their silence, Mattsun could tell she was thinking much harder than she originally had.

(Name) yawned.

“Did you want me to stay the night?”

“Hiro’s gonna kill you if you do; you were supposed to have dinner for his birthday, weren’t you?”

Mattsun grinned; at least she was still in a good enough mindset to remember something as fickle as birthday dinner. “He’s more concerned with your wellbeing than his birthday this month.”

“Are you gonna tell him I’m not angry?”

“ _You’re_ gonna do that. I’m only good for the whole nothing thing we’ve got going on.” Mattsun pulled away from their embrace and poked her directly in the forehead. “Are you gonna be okay?”

The writer nodded slowly loosening her grip from his torso. “Just need sleep.”

“Take your time, yeah? All we want is for you to get better at your own pace, and to maybe not be an asshole all the time, that’d work too.”

She nodded, slowly reclining back towards the mattress and away from Mattsun. She murmured some word of approval before her eyes drifted shut. He hadn’t realised how tired she actually was.

He lingered for a few moments to make sure she was out and then slowly slid out of the room, shutting the door behind him.

As he exited, he exhaled deeply and pressed his back against the door.

He needed a nap.

And maybe a few packs of ramen for the road.

 

* * *

 

Makki had been waiting for him in their bedroom, and when Mattsun had arrived and collapsed next to the shorter male the former immediately clung to him.

“How’d it go?”

“Well I’m pretty sure you still have your job.”

“Oh thank God...” Makki sighed, running his free hand over his face in relief. “And Oikawa?”

“He’s got the better set of cards. It’s all up to him and how he plays these next few hands.”

Makki nodded, dropping his head down on to Mattsun chest in order to listen to the latter’s heartbeat.

“They’re literally the same person, Hiro, I swear...” Mattsun groaned as the silence threatened to engulf them. “Like, what kind of fucking luck do we have that got us stuck between two losers with insecurity problems the size of Jupiter?”

Makki shrugged and put a leg across both of Mattsun’s. “You pissed off some weird deity I bet, you and your stupid gravity defying eyebrows.”

Mattsun smirked and kissed his forehead. “You love them, shut up.”

Makki laughed, air escaping through his nose as he melted further into his side.

As they lay there, a thought appeared in the former’s mind.

“Bet you ¥2000 they’re gonna fuck.”

Makki pondered for a moment and then shook his head.

“You’re delusional,” he retorted, “(Surname) has standards, and Oikawa is only attracted to balls that fly at his face.”

Mattsun blinked once, then twice before nodding slight agreement.

Makki tended to be right about these things.

“But how bad is Oikawa’s vanity that he’d end up going for her?”

“That implies that he isn’t as blind as a bat and can accept they’re the exact same person, which won’t fucking happen while he’s still breathing.”

Mattsun pulled his lips together.

“I’m still down for that ¥2000.”

“You’re on eyebrows.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My baby daddy Mattsun makes his ATAON debut appearance! I love writing him so much; he's so chill and tired and wise and ready for death and just, same, honestly. I want him to show up more but currently the plot doesn't ask for it.  
> I'm gonna have to change that.  
> (and he and makki have to fuck cause cmon my otp)
> 
> Hopefully you guys learnt a little more about our protagonists, and that it wasn't just Mattsun ranting for no reason for a couple thousand words. A lot of exposition, I know, but there isn't really another time in the story where this can happen and have it be appropriate, ya feel?
> 
> But yeah, before the next chapter is posted I'm gong to change the tags and they kind of spoil the direction of the story for a while. Just be weary of that; if you don't want spoilers, don't look!
> 
> Keep the comments and kudos coming if you're enjoying this story as much as I am! I'm always excited to hear what you all think!


	9. Intervention

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He grinned at her. She smiled back. It didn’t reach her eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tags have been changed and spoil the direction of the story for a while; you have been warned!

_February, 2018_

 

Oikawa Tooru was an abysmal host; even he was willing to admit that.

But then again, the people he had to treat had come out of the blue and barged into his home.

Two figures guarded the genkan with an air of ease that unsettled him. Unruly bedhead and streaks of salt and pepper respectively, Oikawa couldn’t help but wonder why the Wonder Duo was in his home so late in the afternoon.

“Tetsu-chan, Tarou-chan, wasn’t there practice today?” Oikawa folded his arms across his chest. “It’s a Wednesday, y’know?”

“We should ask you the same thing, Captain?” Kuroo inquired as he stepped further in, shrugging off his shoes and stepping into slippers with ease. Bokuto sat on the step that connected the hallway to the genkan, tongue trapped between his teeth.

"You’re off crutches and people have seen you on campus – you should be back with us and practicing!” Bokuto added, wagging his finger up at the setter while he untied his shoelaces. Oikawa scoffed.

He hadn’t realised word had gotten around campus that quickly. Perhaps life had shifted his attention away from the world around him more than once. He had only gotten of crutches in the last week, which meant he was able to transit without requiring someone giving up their seat on the train, or helping him carry his books up the stairs to his lecture hall. Even when he arrived on campus, Oikawa uncharacteristically kept a low profile, avoiding the usual groups of people who tended to greet him good morning.

And that also meant avoiding Chuo’s First Gymnasium for four days a week until he graduated.

"I'm still injured, Tarou-chan. Just because I'm off them doesn't make my knee automatically." He chided, leaning up against the wall. Kuroo stepped around the wing spiker and stood tall next to the brunet. “And I’m still strengthening my knee so training with you guys would do more harm than good.”

“But how are you going to be ready for the V League if you don’t practice?" The spiker pouted, and Oikawa felt a chill run up his spine at the mention of the sport.

“I’m honestly surprised you still got an offer,” Kuroo mused, moving so that his back rested flush up against the wall, “I would have thought that the Panthers wouldn’t risk it.”

That had been a surprise to the brunet as well, and though the bed-head’s wording angered him, Oikawa couldn’t help but agree. Even if his rehabilitation was meant to end well before the V League season for 2018 began, it was smarter for the Panasonic Panthers to wait until next season to sign him. There was less risk, sports journalists had argued, in signing the setter on when there was a guarantee of a high quality performance. If he was injured again during the season, there was also the risk that the popularity of the team would plummet.

They signed him anyway; their first pick of the professional line up.

A part of him wondered if it was a wishful offer, that maybe they thought the reward he would reap outweighed the obvious risk he carried around. Another part of him, that cynical side he loathed, said it was out of pity; it was only because the Head Coach had wanted to uphold the promise he made in his third year.

Bokuto hummed loudly as he stood up and clapped the black-haired male on the shoulder. “Aw c’mon Kuroo, you can’t be salty just because you didn’t get drafted by a team.”

The cat-like male narrowed his eyes and frowned, much to Oikawa’s enjoyment. That wasn’t why he said what he did, and Oikawa knew that, but Bokuto wasn’t as in tune to his thoughts as his high school rival was.

The trio trailed further in, the middle blocker and wing spiker both examining every nook and cranny of the apartment. Oikawa Tooru was a man of sentiment, it appeared, with numerous artefacts from his childhood and scholastic volleyball competitions. A few photos of his family lined the walls and shelves, mainly overpowered by whatever trophy or certificate he deemed important on display; today it was the FIVB 2017 Best Setter award.

Despite having lived there for what was coming close to a year, Oikawa felt as though it wasn't homely enough, wasn't as personable as he would have liked it to be. 

 “I _was_ drafted,” Kuroo answered, “I just have other things to think about other than you volleyball nuts.” He punctuated his argument by sprawling out on the couch, arms splayed out against the backing while Bokuto chose to sit with his back resting near the arm rest. Oikawa sat opposite them both on the adjacent section of his l-shaped couch.

“That Master’s in Biochemistry definitely won’t get itself.” Oikawa teased.

Bokuto announced an elongated “Nerd”. Oikawa laughed. Kuroo kneed Bokuto in the back and whacked Oikawa in the shoulder.

And then they moved on. The pair didn’t press on his condition or on his next moves. Instead they talked about Christmas and New Year, about exams and graduation, about whether Oikawa would move to Osaka to train with the Panthers, about whether Bokuto could stand living with Kuroo if he continued with his Masters, about training and workouts, about future uniforms and game plans.

And Oikawa was appreciative of that, really.

As much as he enjoyed Iwaizumi’s company, he could only take so much judgment and annoyance. And Makki and Mattsun hadn’t been back since the events of last month.

For once in a long time he wasn’t treated like a precious gemstone, wasn’t held carefully by the people talking to him as they worried what would set him off in ways that were unsavoury. It was as if he hadn’t been wearing a metal knee brace around his knee, as if he was still training with Ryuujin Nippon for the Asian Games and for the FIVB Tournament that year.

It felt good, to be included again, to feel _needed_ again.

But despite moving on and seeming content with the current conversation, Oikawa caught on to the way Kuroo’s gaze lingered on him, the way the middle blocker analysed his every move and word as if searching for hidden meaning.

Kuroo Tetsurou wasn’t a highly sought after middle blocker for nothing. Years of playing and thinking ahead taught him how to coax people into different positions, how to manoeuvre them in a way that would make it easy for him to gain a point. Years of playing on the same team, however, revealed to him the many tricks of the provocation trade. He appeared out of nowhere, would surprise you with sudden speed and skill that sent shivers down your spine because the status quo he would set would suddenly change and shift at his will. He was good at misdirection, was good at reading and manipulating a situation as he saw fit.

Though they had not met until university, Oikawa was very aware of how dangerous and crafty the bed-head could be.

And so he treaded lightly, barely letting on anything he didn’t want anyone to see. It was better to play safe around Tetsu-chan; you never did know when he was going to strike you down.

“Ugh, I’m so hungry~” Bokuto interrupted, throwing his head back on to the cushion while both his arms wrapped around his middle. “I haven’t eaten since lunch.”

Oikawa frowned. It was only half-past three.

“Tooru~ Take responsibility of your guests and feed me~”

Kuroo shot Oikawa a look, and Oikawa frowned in response.

Hungry Bokuto was Bad Bokuto.

 “I was just going to order delivery tonight-”

“Ughhhhh-”

“But I guess I can cook something-”

Kuroo laughed at Oikawa’s remark, hunching over as he braced his elbows on his knees. “You, cook? That’s the best joke I’ve heard all day.”

Oikawa launched a pillow at the blocker, who dodged with an ease that irritated the former further. “I’m a big boy now; I don’t need Iwa-chan to cook for me.”

“Please, the last time you cooked you completely destroyed my saucepan and still have not bought me a new one, by the way.” Kuroo replied, wiping the tears that had formed from the corners of his eyes.

“You didn’t even need the saucepan; I was doing you a favour.”

“Whatcha gonna cook?” Bokuto interrupted, staring with his large eyes at the setter. The brunet thought for a moment.

“Yakisoba, you can’t mess that up.”

Kuroo stifled another guffaw. “If anyone can do it, it’s you Captain.” He jested sarcastically. Oikawa stood up.

“I hope you’re ready to eat your words Tetsu-chan; I bet they’d be a good side dish for yakisoba.”

“You’re serious?” Kuroo blinked animatedly, the same way Bokuto did during a 9am lecture. Oikawa’s silence was enough of an answer; he was too stubborn for his own good. “Oh man, this I have to see then!”

The blocker tapped his hands against his knees before standing up, towering over the other men.

“I don’t want to get poisoned, thanks.” Kuroo stretched his arms. “I don’t need to be yelled at by Coach for not being careful with what I eat; my body is a temple and I must respect its altar.”

“And my body is going to self destruct if I don’t _eat, guuuys_ ~”

“C’mon then,” Oikawa relented and clapped his hands as he ushered the bed-head into the kitchen, “you chop the vegetables while _I_ prove that my skills have improved.”

Bokuto watched them leave with a grin before reach over to the coffee table for the TV remote. He turned it on and the background noise of a variety show flooded the apartment’s once silent atmosphere.

Despite animatedly arguing with Kuroo a mere ten meters away, Oikawa sought to ignore him the moment they entered the kitchen.

Being alone with the blocker only made it harder to avoid him; he would be able to see the numerous flaws in his armour, and then he would lose to him.

So it was better to stay quiet, to pretend that everything was fine – because it really was, and he didn’t need to convince himself otherwise – and cook this yakisoba because Kuroo be damned if he insult what remained of the setter’s pride!

Oikawa pulled out the utensils he needed, silently setting up a chopping board and knife for the blocker to stay occupied with. Slowly, a pile of vegetables appeared in front of Kuroo: carrots, some cabbage, a few mushrooms and what remained of his bell peppers and zucchini.

Kuroo responded wordlessly, beginning to dice the ingredients before him while Oikawa worked on the noodles.

One more look into the cupboards and the setter found ready-made yakisoba sauce. That was the highlight of his afternoon so far.

Silence engulfed them, but only for a short while.

“So, are you gonna tell me what stick is shoved up your ass or am I going to have to pull it out of you myself?”

Oikawa turned his head slightly, keeping his attention on the noodles he was. Kuroo’s voice was a low murmur, barely heard over the sound of the sizzling stovetop.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Oikawa retorted with a similar town, continuing to rummage for the ingredients he needed.

_Yes Oikawa, deflect, that always works._

“You and I both know that you would have come straight to a practice the moment you were off those things, and yet you’re still avoiding all of us.” Kuroo brandished the knife at the vegetables on the chopping board. “Was it the Intercollegiate? The Panthers? C’mon Oiks, give me something to work with.”

But he didn’t, because his pride would not allow him to say what was on his mind.

“You’re gonna have to tell me at some point Oikawa,” Kuroo reminded with a knowing look, “you wouldn’t want to burn yourself out before you ever had a chance to come back.”

Oikawa didn’t respond. Instead he continued to fry the noodles in the pan in front of him.

 

* * *

 

Bokuto frowned at his two friends, who talking in hushed tones beyond the counter of the kitchen. Their voices barely reached above the sound of the TV.

Sure he agreed to visit the injured setter, but part of him was hoping that the visit would entail a little more action, would give him answers to the questions he knew would not come up in a locker room situation.

But he knew his place – Kuroo was better at the whole interrogation thing they had planned. His Good Cop routine didn’t work in the genkan, so it made sense that the Bad Cop had to make an appearance, even if it meant Bokuto _wasn’t_ a part of it. He had laid the foundation, had done what he needed.

And now he was bored.

And so very, very _hungry_.

Though the pair in the kitchen still bickered with soft voices, the smell of yakisoba did nothing to quell his restlessness. Kuroo may be good with multi-tasking but Bokuto sure was not.

He glanced over to the drawn curtains to the right of him, tilting his head curiously. Fresh air would do the trick, and maybe whatever view he would see would satiate him just a little more than the wafting smells from the kitchen.

The wing spiker walked over to exit and pulled the curtains open. He slid open the glass door to the balcony, letting the wind ruffle his hair as he did. Instead of being met with the sounds of Bunkyo's night life, he heard a familiar harmonica melody and chord progression, punctuated with the sound of a foot tapping on tile.

He knew that song, from a long time ago. The days before volleyball consumed him and life was a little easier.

He wasn’t sure if he missed it, but damn if Bokuto didn’t find it nostalgic.

He pulled himself on to the balcony floor, directing his attention to his left where the music was coming from. The neighbouring balcony door was opened too, the piano riff echoing from a speaker he assumed was further inside. There was a small chair tucked to the right of the doors holding a woman upright, a beer can in hand and her eyes closed as she listened. A few others remained unopened at her feet.

"It's nine o'clock on a Saturday, regular crowd shuffles in. There's an old man sitting next to me, making love to his tonic and gin."

She mumbled the words almost inaudibly, head bobbing back and forth to the rhythm as the rest of her body remained stationary. The stranger looked peaceful - sad, even. She gave off an air of wanting to be left alone. And from the slight redness around her eyes, that may as well have been the case.

In Bokuto's mind, however, songs weren't meant to be sung alone, no matter how sad you felt.

"He said 'Son can you play me a memory, I'm not really sure how it goes. But it's sad and it's sweet and I knew it complete, when I wore a younger man's clothes.'"

The woman immediately turned her head at the sound of the new voice, obviously startled at the sudden intrusion during her alone time.

 They locked eyes. Bokuto’s throat closed.

God, she had pretty eyes. Glassy from tears, but pretty all the same.

Bokuto moved further into the balcony space, pushing past the set of chairs and table that blocked his path. When he reached the edge, he leant over it and grinned at her wordlessly, watching as her eyes widened in what he assumed was surprise.

Who wouldn’t be surprised?

A handsome guy like him serenading a beautiful girl like her with such an old song; it was truly a sight to see.

But as he kept singing, he caught her smiling, caught the way her tight grip around the can loosened and the way her shoulders eased from their tension.

And sure, he was probably making an ass out of himself by singing but he really didn’t care. The Stranger Next Door was smiling and slowly forgetting whatever worries hung on to her shoulders, and that’s really all that mattered to him.

She slowly warmed up to him, mouthing the words as he sang along to the distant music coming from inside her apartment. The woman swivelled her body so she faced him, taking a swig every now and then as she continued to give him her full attention.

And it was nice; it took the edge off the obvious tension radiating from his teammates inside the apartment.

So he decided he’d stay out there for as long as he could. Bokuto lowered himself on to the chair closest to her, resting his cheek up against the barrier with a lazy grin, still singing the limerick style lyrics at her.

He grinned at her. She smiled back. It didn’t reach her eyes.

 

* * *

 

Kuroo and Oikawa winced at the volume of Bokuto’s singing; it wasn’t bad, it wasn’t particularly good either. But both knew that once he started, there was no way he could stop.

They both silently cursed but paused, slowly turning to look at each other.

Why was Bokuto signing?

Why was Bokuto getting progressively louder?

How did he know this much English?

And to this degree of fluency?

Kuroo and Oikawa shared the same look of confusion, and they both turned to the lounge room. They saw the vacant spot on the floor where the spiker once sat, and the open door to the balcony framed by the drawn cream curtains.

“We take our eyes off him for _one_ minute.” Kuroo mumbled, putting the knife down next to the last of the mushrooms.

“That’s _your_ job,” Oikawa mumbled, “I just have to cook yakisoba for you losers.”

Kuroo pushed himself off of the counter and moved through the apartment. Oikawa sighed and switched off the stove and moved the wok off to cool, all before following the middle blocker at a slower pace.

“Oi Bokuto, you’re gonna wake up all of Oikawa’s neighbours-”

The bed-head’s words were cut short with the sound of sudden scrambling, the clattering of cans, and the slamming of a glass door.

“Aw... your ugly face scared her away Kuroo!”

The aforementioned male turned to his left and took in the hardened expression of the setter next to him.

“I don’t think it was me...” He murmured, more to the two of them than to respond to the spiker. He nudged his chin out towards the opposing balcony. “Who was that?”

“That’s just Writer-chan, don’t mind her.” Oikawa waved his hand dismissively. “We’re on bad terms right now, so it’s best to leave her alone.”

“What did you do?”

“I did nothing. She started it.” Oikawa answered. Kuroo looked at him knowingly, but opted not to press further.

“I thought everyone in this building was a retiree – you didn’t tell us you had a pretty neighbour Tooru.” Bokuto hummed, still gazing towards where the writer once sat. Oikawa grimaced slightly.

“A matter of perspective, I guess.” He hummed sarcastically. Bokuto didn’t catch on. Instead he kept his attention on the door, and on the fact that the music had stopped and the lights had been turned off. He frowned, physique wilting in tandem with his mood.

“Oya? Is the Owl Boy sad he couldn’t make another friend?”

Oikawa took in the expression of sadness that donned the spiker’s face. The setter sighed and clapped his shoulder, shaking slightly.

“You don’t want to deal with that... Even I haven’t really tried.” He said. In the dark recesses of his mind, he heard Mattsun’s stern demand echo through the haze. He shuddered.

“And we all know how nosy he gets so that’s saying something.” Kuroo smirked, still looking towards the balcony to their left.

Bokuto opened and closed his mouth a few times as he tried to think of a response. He settled on nodding and retreated into the apartment once more.

Oikawa sought to follow after him but was stopped by a large hand clasping around his bicep, and he watched as the glass door shut in front of his very eyes.

“It’s about the girl, isn’t it?”

Though he phrased it as a question, Kuroo already knew the answer. It was definitely about the girl next door.

Oikawa sneered. “I did nothing wrong-”

“Was not implying that but it’s good that you’re kind of admitting it.”

Kuroo raised an eyebrow at Oikawa’s disgruntled expression.

“Look man, whatever happened you can probably fix it yeah? And even if you can’t, Bo and I are here for you. You aren’t alone; you haven’t been in very long time.”

Oikawa clenched and unclenched his fists before he exhaled, relaxing his body entirely.

“She’s friend’s with Mattsun and Makki, and maybe I snapped at her because she’s got a perfect life and career and had everything going for her but she wasn’t happy. So I did what I had to do-”

“And you found her weakness and used it against her.”

“She’s not completely stable, that’s what Makki said at least, and she’s got an insecurity that does not much the air of confidence she emits.”

“Aren’t all those creative types a little less than normal?”

“That’s what _I_ said! But apparently that’s not true.”

“I’d assume so; there’s really only so much we know about each other’s lives let alone the lives of a random strangers. We can’t really put everyone into accurate boxes-”

Oikawa sighed and held up a hand at the blocker. “Don’t bother with the lecture, I’ve already heard it.” He looked off to the empty balcony. “Give her your sympathy, everyone else already has.”

Kuroo clicked his tongue. “Sympathy isn’t something you want to earn Tooru,” he noted, “so is that really why you’re angry at her?”

_Because there’s still a world for her and it annoys me because geniuses get everything served on a platter. Her sadness does not stem from failure, from real suffering. Because she can mess up all she wants and people will side with her. She’s not the only one who needs help._

The setter grumbled. “Close enough...”

The hazel eyed man clapped Oikawa on the shoulder and shrugged. “You have an entire community of volleyball players both in Japan and around the world waiting for your triumphant return to the court. If you of all people are actually jealous of a writer who no-one really knows then I’d be concerned.”

Kuroo smirked.

“All I’m saying is that you’re Oikawa Tooru. You know how she works; all you’ve got to do is what you do best.”

Oikawa blinked in thought, feeling Kuroo squeeze the muscles in his arm one more time before he let go.

_Do what you do best._

_ Use her. _

The setter nodded wordlessly and moved aside, pulling the door back open and allowing the middle blocker to enter the room first. By the time they had re-entered the apartment, the monochrome haired male had already served himself some yakisoba and seated himself on the spot on the floor he had chosen earlier that evening. His eyes were trained on the show playing before him, and every now and then his shoulders would shake with what the pair presumed was silent laughter.

Bokuto remained uncharacteristically quiet for the rest of the evening.

 

* * *

 

The only bad thing about (Surname)’s apartment was that the front door didn’t have a peep-hole.

It did at one point in her very early residency, but the glass had broken from when she slammed the door in her second editor’s face and she had yet to replace it.

This only meant she was blind to unwelcomed and unexpected visits. Especially to strangers she had never met before.

He appeared at her doorstep at five in the afternoon roughly a week after they had first met, if one could consider that impromptu sing-a-long a ‘meeting’ of any kind.

His hair was styled downwards unlike their first meeting, with a bag slung over his shoulder and his university team’s tracksuit jacket thrown on top of the tight fitting black shirt he wore.

Chuo.

His golden eyes flickered around the entire doorframe before they landed on her and widened – as if it were humanly possible – and he grinned at the shorter woman before him. “Hi! My name’s Bokuto Koutarou, I’m that guy who sang ‘Piano Man’ at you last week. Did you want to grab dinner with me tonight?”

(Name) cocked her head to the side at his introduction.

At her confusion, he began to backpedal. “I-I mean you don’t have to! I just thought you might like rock music since you were singing! And I like rock music too, and I’ve been thinking that if we _both_ like it then there has to be other stuff we _both_ like! And that means we can be friends!”

Her stare only hardened at the final word.

He faltered.

“T-That’s if you want to, of course! Oikawa said – well he really just implied – that you prefer to spend time alone and all so I really don’t mind you turn down my offer or whatever, really, I’m kind of used to it. I just thought it’d be nice to get to know you and talk about other things and-”

He trailed off as he watched her eyes glaze over in thought.

The name rung in her ears and (Name) couldn’t help but freeze at the way it sent memories from the month before rushing back into her mind.

Unanswered phone calls, deleted messages, isolation, and desolation.

“I-uh-I guess that it’s a ‘no’, huh?” Bokuto sighed.

“Did Oikawa put you up to this?” She asked, unable to stop the words from leaving her mouth.

Bokuto raised his eyebrows in his own confusion. “Put me up to what? Being nice to you?”

She nodded. He laughed.

“No! Tooru even told me not to bother with trying; said you were a bit of a hassle.”

(Name) frowned. He wasn’t wrong, but the likelihood was that Limpy heard that from Mattsun or Hanamaki and the thought infuriated her entirely. It was none of his business – he shouldn’t have known in the first place.

But the conviction in his words threw her off. He was a bag of nerves that spoke with a type of confidence that only people with an assured ego had. And somehow she found herself believing him, in believing that he genuinely wanted to know her regardless of what his friend said about her.

“Bokuto-san.”

The black and white haired man paused in place, hands still twisted together out of sheer nerves. (Name) shrugged almost sheepishly.

“I’m not good with the whole ‘socialising’ thing.” She admitted, bile rising up back through her oesophagus. She swallowed it down as quickly as it came, “I mean, I only found that out this past week but it seems like a liability you should know about.”

He perked up immediately. “That’s perfectly fine! I have enough of those skills for the both of us, uh-”

“(Surname) (Name)-”

“(Surname)-chan it is then!”

The woman couldn’t help but stare in awe at the man before her.

He was interesting; and her interest in his character made her worry. Then again, she was interested in the characters of most people, but his was _very_ different.

There was an air of difference around him that threw the writer off. He was naturally charming, with a charisma and allure that only politicians could lust over.

There was something about Bokuto Koutarou that made life appear a little more interesting, a little more likeable, a little more worthwhile.

There was an earnest nature about him, something that told her he was a man of simple pleasure and many truths. The calluses and bruises on his hands and arms showed her another story; one of hard-work and dedication that rendered him sore and immobile at the end of the day. And yet the way he fluctuated from confident to despondent was endearing – to her at least.

And there he was, a broad, thick shouldered, beef man who looked at her as helplessly – who sang with her without ever knowing how she was feeling, who willingly let her run away – asking her to be his friend.

It was almost too good to be true.

But the name lingering on his tongue made her sceptical.

Oikawa Tooru.

Oikawa Tooru was not a man who she could easily trust and, in that same regard, a man who she could not believe would change overnight.

She knew his type well; break down people into the pieces that make sense and rebuild them, use them in a way that you seem fit because that’s how their worlds worked, and nothing would change that.

And she needed to be weary of people like that; Mattsun’s warning still rung loud and clear in her ear and maybe it was a bad thing.

The timing seemed strange, a little too convenient for her liking if (Name) was perfectly honest.

Oikawa Tooru had already ruined most things for her in the matter of a few minutes, what’s to say he wouldn’t seize this opportunity and ruin her a little more. It was a plan to spite her for reasons she still did not understand; send a person who was too much like Fuyutsuki Makoto, have them befriend her and then break her all over again. A stroke of genius, truly.

She blinked and internally scoffed.

She was over-thinking this; the monochrome haired man in front of her was being honest, was being genuine. Her fear was unnecessary, though justified.

And maybe it was the loneliness finally settling in to her core, but she thought the risk was worth whatever reward she would achieve from this.

Besides, she could always need more friends.

“Give me five minutes... I know this really good okonomiyaki place a few blocks away from Mejirodai Station.”

The man’s eyes shimmered, flashing with a simultaneous shock of confusion and excitement from her response. He stepped forward slightly.

“Sounds good to me!”

Her heart stopped for a moment, and in that moment she thought the sudden volume had shaken her entire system. But it hadn’t, it didn’t.

Rather it was the fact that his hair had practically _lifted itself off his forehead_.

She could have sworn she saw a flash of forehead for a brief second.

(Name) shook her head to herself as she retreated back into the apartment. She made a mental note to see if she could make it happen again.

And take a photo of it.

For future writing references, of course.

 

* * *

 

“So... is everything okay with you?”

(Name) looked up from across the stovetop with an arched eyebrow. Though the question held no definitive indication of time, she knew very well what he meant.

_You were crying last week, are you okay now?_

They had talked about a lot – the male doing more than the female of course, but she was used to being the silent one in conversations – and when it had ran dry, he had immediately switched the focus to her.

Which was fine.

Bokuto Koutarou was a person she could kite, no problem.

“Fine,” she hummed as she cut a small piece of meat, “why do you ask?”

The spiker swallowed his mouthful quickly and waved his hand.

“No one listens to music and drinks all alone if they don’t feel okay.”

She raised a brow. “Know that from experience?”

“I, too, enjoy the finer things in life.”

“How is Asahi beer and foreign soft rock the ‘finer things in life’?” The writer mused.

“Because the masses haven’t realised how therapeutic it is, and its obscurity means that only the highest calibre of people can truly understand and appreciate it.”

(Name) hummed.

“Nice words.”

“Thanks, I learned them this year.”

She snorted. He grinned and leaned back.

It was silent for a few minutes as they began to finish their servings. One thing she learned about Bokuto Koutarou over the course of the dinner was that he had a surprisingly good awareness of mood. He could hold and fold when he pleased; most of the time he held on, but on rare occasions he would let her slip into a silence she could appreciate, to reenergise herself from the intense amount of talking he seemed to do naturally.

And she was glad; if she played her cards right, she could go about avoiding the questions about the other evening that still lingered on his mind.

Another thing of importance she had learned that evening, however, was that Bokuto Koutarou was a persistent man who knew no bounds and demanded satisfaction. And while it was often done meekly and unsurely, it was still a type of persistence that one could only describe as annoying.

“Y’know if it’s anything Oikawa did, you shouldn’t take it personally.”

Her interest peaked. Perhaps her initial introspection of him from the afternoon was correct. “Oh really?”

He nodded. “I’ve only known him for four years but he tends to have good intentions.”

“How so?” She mused, showing a rare moment of genuine interest in the conversation. Bokuto shrugged.

“He’s always got your interest in mind; y’know he’s always thinking of the best plan of attack for any situation and he’s always considering what’s gonna have the best possible outcome for everyone.”

(Name) poked at her food bitterly.

“But he is a pretty selfish guy. Most people tend to be, so whatever moral compass you have, it never tends to align with anyone else; and for Oikawa he expects you to cooperate with him more than he you. So if you hate him I’m not surprised; you don’t seem the type to follow him blindly.”

“And you are?”

“It’s different,” he concluded, “he’s the control tower of the court for the most part and I’m a spiker – and moreover, he’s my captain and my teammate and my friend. We’re on different wavelengths but we understand each other because we make an effort to do so.”

“You think whatever happened was equally both of our faults, then?”

Bokuto shrugged, “Oikawa didn’t tell me what really happened but I can’t place blame that easily. Besides,” he looked up at her, eyes narrowed ever so slightly, “it takes two to tango.”

A shiver shot up through her spine and she narrowed her eyes in response. This encounter was another attempt to get her to forgive him, to act civil with a man who allegedly was a good guy but treated her like complete shit. And while she believed every word Bokuto had said – that he didn’t know anything about the situation, that Oikawa refused to talk about it, that he came of his own accord and goodwill – she couldn’t help but think of convenience and fate and timing and how shitty life was trying to be with her.

“I’m starting to believe that all volleyball players tend to know more than they let on.”

The tall male hummed and nodded in agreement “It’s a fast paced sport so we’ve gotta be good at reading any situation. What, you don’t have any sporty friends?”

She shook her head. “Athletics weren’t my forte. I was more of the studious type-”

“Nerdy, got it.”

Her eye twitched.

He laughed.

“One of my best friend’s is the same,” he responded, “he’s this really brainy guy and he’s a pretty alright player as well. I was surprised he didn’t get into Tokyo U back in high school, the dumb cat.”

She shovelled the final piece of pancake into her mouth as she listened. Bokuto had no qualms about sharing personal information; he did so as if they were free samples into his life. It was amusing, the unabashed confidence he had in himself.

She wanted that.

And so she let him talk more about himself, slowly but surely steering him away from his intentions like shepherd do to their sheep.

And it was easy, too easy. It reminded her of Makoto.

At some point during the evening she sent a text to her in apology for that night.

She didn’t text back.

 

* * *

 

By the end of the dinner, Bokuto had not pressed any further about his concerns for the woman. Instead he had filled her head with thoughts of his life and career; about how he was Ryuujin Nippon’s #16 – the _true_ Ace of the Court that _definitely_ wasn’t that Ushijima guy who had always ranked above him in high school, about how he was signing on with Tokyo FC that season for the V League and how their track record didn’t mean anything to him because volleyball was volleyball, about how much he loved yakiniku and how he knew a really good place and-

“I’ll take you there! It’s really cheap but the owner uses the best cuts of meats since he was a butcher for fifty years and knows his stuff really well.”

She found herself agreeing, because her curiosity about Bokuto Koutarou only grew the more he spoke about himself. The enigma that revealed itself was interesting, a bundle of layers and maze-like hallways that weaved in and out to create a complex image of a man who seemed so simple on the surface.

He was a walking optical illusion.

And from the eagerness of his voice, he wanted to stick around. Which, in itself, was strange, because most people didn’t stick around for very long.

As they exited the restaurant, the streets were crowded with Bunkyo night life – a mix of university students and suit-clad people roaming and milling around the streets searching for a moment of needed peace in the hustle and bustle of Japan.

But even the flurry of bodies around her could not distract her from the sudden sound of a text chime that rang loud and clear in the atmosphere.

She scrambled for her phone in her pocket and stared wide eyed at the response on the screen before her.

**Fuyutsuki Makoto**

_Stop calling me.  (8:48pm)_

Her heart dropped straight into her stomach.

No response would have been better than that.

Whether Bokuto noticed something was wrong was beyond her, but if he knew more than he should have then he didn’t let it show.

His hand clasped around her own tightly, giving it a squeeze one could only describe as reassuring. He pulled her closer to her side.

“You still got some energy left in ya?”

“I didn’t eat too much-”

“Good! Then let’s hit the town!”

“Bokuto-san-”

“C’mon (Surname), live a little!”

“I live the perfect amount, thank you-”

She tried to remove the grip he had on her. His fingers intertwined with hers in response, and the golden eyed male smiled in delight when she didn’t jerk away.

“There’s a cool place I know just on the outskirts of Shinjuku; good atmosphere, not a lot of people, a nice view of the city. C’mon, you know you want to~”

“Bokuto-san-”

“There’ll be free drinks too. Well, that’s only because the owner is a volleyball nut, but a perk is a perk and beggars can’t be choosers.”

There was no hiding his amusement when Bokuto caught wind of the interest that appeared on her face.

 _Got her_.

“One drink,” she relented with a sigh, “I have a meeting tomorrow and I can’t be too hung-over.”

As if on cue, Bokuto hailed a taxi and shoved her into the backseat before immediately following in after her. The excitement radiated off him; (Name) wondered again how he was so expressive.

 

* * *

 

Bokuto wasn’t kidding when he said the bar had a nice view of the city. It wasn’t in a top level of a sky-rise hotel building, but the rooftop it was connected to had a beautiful panoramic view of the infamous Tokyo skyline and the neon stars that dotted the misshapen silhouettes of the thousands of skyscrapers.

They were leaning against the iron railing that walled the rooftop portion of the bar in, both holding drinks of their choosing while their forearms rested on the corner of the horizontal bar.

Lines and lines of description rushed through her mind for the first time in weeks. The scenery was a much needed shock to her system. Though she wouldn’t tell him that; Bokuto Koutarou seemed the type who liked having his ego stroked. And if she didn’t know his boundaries then she shouldn’t risk it.

“Oikawa mentioned you were having a rough week?”

She snorted at the sudden conversation starter. (Name) knew that he was buttering her up, but she didn’t really expect it to be this blunt of an approach. “That’s what he’s calling it huh?” She took a long, drawn our sip of her beer. “It’s more of a rough life than anything.”

“About that Fuyutsuki chick?”

“Oikawa tell you about her?”

“What’s it gonna take for you to believe that he didn’t tell me anything?”

“When you stop mentioning him.”

“How can I stop mentioning him when he’s obviously the reason you’re in a mood?”

The writer caught on to his confused expression from her peripheral and she sighed. He was telling the truth; Oikawa really had nothing to do with his intervention.

“We had a fight because I’m not good with the whole talking thing and Oikawa’s good at the whole manipulation and misdirection thing.” (Name) folded her arms and leant forward. “We were friends for seven years and now she won’t talk to me because she took a stranger’s side rather than her best friend’s.”

Bokuto nodded wordlessly for the first time that evening and immediately went to mimic her stance.

“How long ago was this?”

“Like a week.”

“You should just give her time.” He mused, “Not everyone is going to want to talk after a fight as bad as that, especially one where Oikawa is involved. It’s best if you let her be for a while, maybe find out who you are without her there. You’ve gotta have other things going for you outside your friendships, right? You don’t seem the type to take things lying down.”

“Is that what you would need,” she asked, “time?”

The man shrugged half-heartedly. “If she’s like me then yeah... But I’m not a good example, I’m too moody.”

The words circled around in her mind.

Maybe he was right, maybe she just needed to let go for a while.

She looked away from the skyline and back to her companion, who was already staring at her. She paused, unable to tear her gaze away from him and his eyes that stared back at her with the same interest, the same vigour. And from the look he was giving her, she knew he really did mean well. She knew that this man had seen her at her lowest and immediately thought, with no hesitation, that she needed help and that he would be the one to do it. That she was lonely and he would provide the company. The she needed someone and he would be that someone.

And deep within the golden eyes she stared into, she saw it.

Another goddamn poem.

“Is there something on my face, (Surname)-san?” Bokuto waved his hand in front of her slightly. “You zoned out really hard.”

“I-uh-sorry, I tend to space out when I get inspiration for something.”

Bokuto blinked in confusion.

She faltered.

“I-I’m a writer so I tend to think a lot about a lot of things a-and when I do the whole thinking thing I tend to space out. But you wouldn’t know that because I didn’t say anything about myself the entire night, did I? So that was probably really weird for you and now I’m rambling and-”

Bokuto waved his hand dismissively at her, immediately silencing her apologies. He moved closer to her, their shoulders brushing from his sudden movement. “Tell me more about that! I’ve never been the wordy type, if you can’t already tell. And most of my friends who are the brainy type are good with numbers and are hopeless with everything else.”

He laughed. She found herself chuckling as well before she exhaled deeply and nodded.

She could trust this one.

Just this once.

“Yeah, okay... What did you want to know?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oya oya oya! The important person from Chapter 4 was Owl Boy Bokuto! Did anyone think it was him? Anyone? No? Okay.  
> (i did do a bad job at hinting, didn't I?)  
> But that's not to say Kuroo isn't going to be an important person in the story! He has his place; it's just that my baby boy Bokuto needs more love sometimes, ya feel? And if can't already tell then I have way too many personal headcanons in the story so please don't be surprised when more come up later on.
> 
> I've been waiting so long to write and post this chapter! I love Bokuto too much, way too much, it's a problem I swear. Honestly, this was the highlight of my very shitty week after a rough weekend at work and the news about SHINee's Jonghyun... 
> 
> It's getting real man; things are heating up like the weather here in Sydney so you better be prepared. You can't say I didn't warn you.


	10. Windows

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Since when did they decide they were friends?
> 
> And why was she unbothered by the new revelation?
> 
> //
> 
> He balled his fists angrily, hitting his mattress in frustration.
> 
> This wasn’t a part of his plan.
> 
> This wasn’t meant to happen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: fluff and angst happen very quickly, so quickly that you may get whiplash. Please proceed with caution, I do not take responsibility for any injuries that may ensue.

_ February, 2018 _

 

The world was quiet in Bunkyo, and while (Name) would normally find that concerning, she was instead thankful for it.

Less action meant fewer eyes, less introspection, less witnesses.

And that made swallowing her pride all the easier.

The Kodansha building was as quiet as the district was, and the writer entered the elevator in the lobby and pressed the button to take her to the eleventh floor.

In the long climb up the building, (Name) found herself staring into space, contemplating what she was going to say to her editor.

Hanamaki wasn’t one to hold grudges from what she knew, but his lack of forgiveness wasn’t her concern.

It was her pride.

Sure, Mattsun’s lecture had provided her perspective, but she couldn’t help but still feel like the victim. Hanamaki had every right to go to someone for help and, yes, he couldn’t control what Limpy did and did not do that evening but surely he would have had a hunch, would know more about his best friends than she did. He could see both sides of the coin; he should have known something like this would happen.

He had agency in this fight; he had to shoulder some of blame. And even if Mattsun had told her he felt guilty about it, she couldn’t help but dismiss it. He would have approached her first, not send in his boyfriend-not-boyfriend to mend the bridge for him or guilt her into mending it.

Her pride was too damn big for this bullshit.

The elevator dinged and the doors slid open. The hallway was empty, but the faint sounds of life filtered through the closed double doors that led to the Literature Department told her that she wouldn’t be alone for long. It filled her with a sense of dread.

Her second book had just been released.

She sighed.

On other days, she would be accompanied by Hanamaki through the floor. The two would talk business, and the conversation was enough to scare people away.

But with the current state of her career, there was no doubt she would be approached by someone the moment she walked through those doors. And the fact she was alone only increased the likelihood of someone talking to her.

She pinched the bridge of her nose as she stepped out of the way of the closing doors and a halted in front of her department.

‘Keep your head down’, she thought, ‘pull your phone out and pretend you’re doing an interview or something.’

She fished around in her pockets for her mobile and pressed it to her ear. In the same moment, she swung the left door open and stormed in, animatedly nodding to a fake voice as she began to stalk menacingly through the floor.

“Ah, (Surname)-sensei!”

Hisakawa.

_Fuck._

She glanced up at him and mouthed “Important, sorry” at the Head Editor. His eyes widened in surprise, as if he had not expected her to respond, and nodded and mouthing his own apology. (Name) turned her head back to the front and continued to nod to the fictitious conversation.

And then she was in front of Hanamaki’s office. Without looking back, she pulled her phone away from her ear and threw open the door open. She stormed in quickly, a little worried that someone was on their way towards her now that she was free from her 'phone call'.

She slammed the door shut behind her, alerting the male that sat behind the desk. He shot up, no longer hunched over the papers that lay scattered across his desk. Hanamaki’s hair tended to look light pink in his office lighting, and his usually tired eyes widened in surprise at her sudden entrance.

“(Surname)-”

“I’m an ass and I admit I was kind of pissed at you for talking about me to Limpy.”

She announced, walking over to her usual chair that resided on the opposite side of his desk. The writer plopped down, arms immediately folding over her chest. Hanamaki tilted his head. (Name) sighed.

“But I understand why you went to him – it’s the same reason you came to me about him – and while I have a right to be pissed at you, you have every right to seek help when it comes to me. I’m an ass, I accept that, but your friend is also an ass and you of all people should have known that he would try that. Mattsun knew, and you two are essentially the same person.

“So yeah, I’m hurt at what you did, and yeah I do kind of blame you for what happened that night. It’s not entirely your fault, but everyone has agency in this world and you’re equally to blame in this. You knew, you had responsibility in this and I hope you know that. But I’m not here to guilt you or anything. I’m here to not be an ass for once.

“I’m sorry I’m an ass. I’m sorry I can’t talk about my feelings and shit without being stable. I’m sorry I don’t – that I _can’t_ talk about myself. But you’ve gotta understand that I don’t-”

_I don’t trust you yet._

Hanamaki threw a pen lid at her head, making her frown.

“The fuck?”

“You are an ass, yeah. But you say that as if I didn’t know that from the moment I met you. You’re an ass, but you’re _my_ ass.”

(Name) cringed. “Please never call me ‘your ass’ ever again; the Lord only knows what you and Mattsun do in the bedroom-”

He threw the entire pen at her. It hit her forehead sideways.

“I’m sorry that I’m worried about you all the time. I know you’re the type of person who deals with things alone but I want you to know that I’m always here for you, and so is Mattsun. And so is Doctor Nakamura. I’m sorry I didn’t think the Oikawa thing through, I should have known that he would have been a complete dick, but in my defence I didn’t think he would go completely off the wall.

“And I forgive you, of course I do. You have a right to be pissed at me and the way you acted towards someone trying to help was pretty immature. But I forgive you, and we can work it out. Evolving from an asshole doesn’t happen overnight. No matter what you think, we’re in this together more than you would think.

“So I guess we’re both to blame, partly. And I appreciate you opening up to me even for a brief moment and swallowing your pride and apologising. I know that must have been hard for you.”

“You’re damn right,” she grumbled, “fucking had to rehearse this shit for three days and then again in the elevator.”

Hanamaki laughed and leant forward, arms a little. “C’mon, hug it out.”

She frowned. “Piss off.”

Hanamaki stood up. “Don’t be so stingy, Scrooge. We’ve got to seal the deal with a hug, it’s a tradition.”

“Probably a Miyagi thing, no one is Osaka does that kind of shit.”

“You’re in denial~” Hanamaki circled around his desk, and (Name) scooted back in the chair, the legs scraping against the floor as she moved away from him.

“You keep that weird Miyagi bullshit away from me, Country Boy or I’m gonna kick you.”

“But (Name),” he hummed, “how are else are we going to work on the whole ‘stop being an ass’ thing?  It all starts with a hug~”

He closed the distance and (Name) groaned, feeling the editor rest his chin on the crown of her head.

In the two years they had known each other, the closest they ever got was standing side by side on a rush hour express train to a meeting across the city. This was new, slightly unwelcomed, but not entirely disliked.

She put her arms around him reluctantly, patting him once before letting them drop once again. “No one hears about this, you’ve got that?”

“Aw (Surname), what’d ya mean? I’ve gotta tell Mattsun about this - together we can both teach you the ways of the Miyagi countryside.”

“I am not being the meat in that sandwich, thank you. Now please get off me before I take back everything I said today and fire your ass so hard your head will spin.”

“You wouldn’t do that, you like me too much!” Hanamaki laughed, making her groan despondently.

He held her for a little longer, and (Name) felt the chair scoot forward a little as he pulled both her and the piece of furniture back to its original position. And then he pulled away, still wearing a shit-eating grin on his face while his writer frowned at his expression.

Hanamaki took a seat on the edge of desk and, (Name) stared up at him. “Have you been back to Nakamura yet?”

She shook her head. “Next week. It took most of my strength to see you; it’ll take a little more to face her again.” Hanamaki nodded thoughtfully. (Name) coughed. “The book got released.”

“It did, apparently initial sales are performing much better than we anticipated.” He turned around slightly so that he could grab one of the papers. Turning back, he showed it to her. The first week of sales were displayed on the page, with other numbers and facts and figures that she was not particularly concerned with. What mattered to her, and to Kodansha by extension, was the performance; not projection or prediction.

And her second book ‘Dragon Tears’ was already surpassing ‘A Moth to Flame’.

Why was she feeling sick all of a sudden?

“I’ve got a few things lined up for you when you’re ready to start the proper promotions.” Hanamaki explained, and when (Name) looked up she saw him scrolling through his computer as he scanned the screen for her schedule. “Just a few interviews and an appearance on a talk show. We’re also gonna set up a few book signings here in Tokyo since the performance in the prefecture is better than around the country in general.”

“I didn’t realise my atonement was more publicity. If I knew that I would have probably stayed away from you.”

He kicked her shin and she smirked at his response. “I’ll send you the details now, the fast you do all this the easier you can rest in the lead up to graduation.”

There were a few moments of silence, and (Name) felt her phone vibrate in her pocket. She fished it out and took note of the email before sliding it back into its original position.

“Have you, uh...” Hanamaki coughed. “How’s the poetry going?”

A flash of light appeared in her mind, and she saw the Tokyo skyline again in her mind. Then she saw golden eyes and a smile that blinded her. It faded and she saw the anger, the fear, a fury that turned her vision red and-

“I’ve had a few ideas, nothing set in stone.” She admitted, looking away for a moment.

Hanamaki tilted his head. That was very unlike (Surname); she never got nervous about her writing.

But he dismissed it, because it had been a weird few weeks for everyone and maybe that apology had taken more out of her than he had anticipated.

“Well I’ll pick up whatever you’ve written yeah? Now that the book’s done and dusted you’ve got free reign over what you want to do.”

(Name) nodded. Because while a part of her believed what Hanamaki had said, while another part of her remained cynical about her situation.

Perhaps it would take much longer to work out the whole ‘being an ass’ thing than they all anticipated.

 

* * *

 

Mejirodai was a quiet district; a place where nothing ever happened  besides the usual slice-of-life simplicity of the typical man, woman and child.

And because of that, (Name) tended to let her journeys through the district become moments of thought and planning, because no one really paid attention to her and her work. There was rarely attention on her in the district, save for Haruko – but she never pried where her mind told her not to.

She swiped through the schedule Hanamaki had sent to her on her phone, frowning at the amount of interviews and appearances he planned over the course of the next two months.

(Name) shook her head and continued walking, ignoring the faint sounds of yelling in the distance. It was the mid-afternoon when she had finally left Hanamaki’s office, and that meant flocks of high-schoolers who didn’t have afternoon club activities would be roaming around  the district.

It made her want to get home faster.

 

* * *

 

“(Surname)!”

Bokuto frowned as he lost sight of the writer, who skilfully weaved in and out of the crowds near the Bunkyo station exit. He moved forward a little more and then stopped.

She looked busy; he would see her another time.

But maybe...

The male beside him followed his gaze, catching a brief glimpse of her (h/c) hair before it disappeared. He smirked.

“Who’s the girl?” Kuroo asked, waggling his eyebrows in what could only be a suggestive manner.

“She’s a new friend – hey, do you mind if I rain check tonight?” Bokuto asked as he hiked the strap of his training bag further up his shoulder. “I promised I’d take her out to dinner this week and it feels like a good day to do it.”

“It’s Bro Night.”

“You can come!”

“That’s not a good idea; I already third wheel whenever Akaashi comes over, I don’t need to be a wheel in another stupid tricycle.”

The monochrome haired male blinked owlishly, the joke going over his head in ways that Kuroo should have been used to by that point in the friendship.

“She looked a little busy, Bo, are you sure?”

He frowned. “Maybe not.” He retracted his request, looking a little forlorn.

Kuroo nodded and they continued to walk in silence. But it only lasted a moment. Kuroo couldn’t help but pry; he wasn’t the Gossip of the Tokyo Volleyball Circuit for nothing.

“Does she go to Chuo?”

“I don’t think so, no.”

“Then when did you meet her?” Kuroo asked curiously, “We’ve been training for the Asian Games all month and we’re getting ready for graduation – no offence bro but you haven’t had a life these past few weeks.”

Bokuto averted his gaze. Kuroo’s grin widened.

“Is this the same girl as the other night?”

Bokuto blinked. “No.”

He lied.

“She’s a different girl. I stayed away from her like Oikawa said I should.”

He lied again.

And Kuroo couldn’t help but tilt his head at his best friend’s response. Because it wasn’t like Bokuto to throw away the Bro Code – whether it was a common or an unspoken rule. He had respected for a lot of people, and the respect he had for his friends held no bounds. He never liked to hurt them, never liked going against what they said intentionally (unintentionally was another story entirely, but the concept of forgive and forget was common amongst their tight-knit circle).

“It’s not like you to lie this much, Bo.” The blocker noted as they continued to walk home through the district. “I didn’t pin you to be the type to break Oikawa’s trust like that.”

The spiker frowned. “Don’t try and make me the bad guy, Kuroo.”

“But the promise you made-”

“It’s so much more than that bro...” Bokuto sighed, exasperatedly. The expression made the blocker freeze.

This was a new side of his best friend.

“She’s just sad. And she doesn’t think anyone realises it but _I_ do. And she has every right to be sad, but _I_ just don’t want her to be.”

“So it’s pity?”

“It’s not pity.” Bokuto affirmed with his voice hard with determination. “I want to be there for her the same way you’re there for me... Everyone has someone but... I don’t think she has anyone left.”

The blocker sighed and clapped his best friend on the shoulder. He didn’t say anything, and his silence was enough confirmation for Bokuto to move away from the topic entirely.

And while the spiker rambled on about other things, Kuroo found himself deep in thought.

Bokuto had always been a nice guy, had always been the type who would naturally lift people up with his natural charisma and personality. He had seen it in action; that’s how they met after all, at their first summer training camp held by the Fukurodani group. A moody, lonely Kuroo approached by a dude who looked like an actual owl.

And the situation gave him déjà vu of their first meeting with Tsukishima; their favourite four-eyed middle blocker who purposely avoided people because Effort.

Perhaps Bo had a type.

He’d have to bring it up with Akaashi.

 

* * *

 

The next day, (Surname) found herself in the konbini down the block, basket full of ramen beer and snacks that would keep her pantry full for at least a few weeks if Matsukawa didn’t show up.

But he probably would.

So she grabbed a few more five-packs of the extra spicy variety for good measure.

And then maybe more of those microwave ready meals Haruko had been so adamant in making sure she had in stock specifically for the writer.

She weaved further into the usually quiet store when a large hand tugged at her jacket and the writer spun around, (eye) eyes being met with golden ones.

“(Surname), hey!”

“Oh, Bokuto-san.”

He wasn’t in the training gear she was used to seeing. Instead he wore dark wash distressed jeans with tight fitting maroon t-shirt. He was free from his large gym bag and had a pair of thick sunglasses perched on his head.

“I didn’t know you lived out this way.” She admitted as she continued walking. “I thought you lived closer to your uni.”

The spiker shook his head, eagerly following her along. “Nope, my roommate and I live along this street too. We’re a little north of the station though so that’s probably why you’ve never seen us around here. We only come down this way if Kuroo wants mackerel, and the only place we’ve found in Mejirodai that stocks his favourite is this konbini.” He waved a packet of frozen mackerel in the air before he placed it back down into the basket. (Name) hadn’t realised he was also shopping.

“You look like you’re getting ready for hibernation, (Surname).” He grinned, looking over her shoulder and examining her goods. “Or a really long night.”

She shrugged and opened one of the refrigerators. “Life’s gotten a bit busy since the last time we talked.”

“Is it too busy for you to go out tonight?” She shut the door and turned to the spiker, who leant up against the frosty surface with a curious smile. “I still need to take you to that restaurant I was talking about.”

(Name) continued on to the front counter, Bokuto following behind her.

“That depends,” she mused, “am I going to get free drinks out of this dinner?”

He shrugged dismissively “You’ll have to come out and see for yourself.”

 _Too much effort_.

“I’ll pass then.”

He frowned.

She laughed softly and placed her basket on the counter, ready to have them scanned by-

“(Surname)-sensei, how are you!”

The writer looked up and nodded. “Haruko-chan, hello.”

“Oh it’s you today Clerk-chan!”

The girl visibly shrunk away at Bokuto’s announcement. (Name) waved her hand at him. “I’ll pay for your mackerel, just don’t scare the poor girl Bokuto-san.”

The spiker whined at her, but dropped his goods on the counter alongside the writer’s. Haruko blinked confusedly before beginning to scan everything, making sure to separate the items between the two people.

Which was easy, considering the fact that she was all too familiar with (Surname)’s usual konbini run.

But it was safe to say she was confused. In her few months of working at the humble corner store, she had never seen the writer with anyone else other than Hanamaki-san. And even then she seemed to be uncomfortable in his presence.

And yet there was the salt-and-pepper haired male, who only came around once a month and tended to hang around other equally tall and intimidating men, acting so casually around the woman, as if he had been there the entire time.

‘(Surname)-sensei sure has strange taste in friends...’ The high schooler thought, continuing to bag items.

“C’mon (Surname), I’ll even pay for dinner this time around.”

“Uh... (Surname)-sensei?”

“Yes Haruko-chan?” (Surname) interrupted the spiker, turning her attention to the young girl.

The girl blinked. _Why was she being pleasant?_

“I, uh, just wanted to say congratulations for your new release... I finished reading it yesterday a-and it’s really good.”

(Name)’s eyes widened in surprise. ‘Fuck,’ she thought, ‘I forgot Haruko was a big fan.’

Bokuto wore a similar expression and swivelled around to face her head on.

“Your book got released? Really? Can I read it? What’s it about?”

She blinked.

“For real?”

“Yeah!”

“You’re not saying that to be nice?”

“No, I want to! I mean, it might take me a few months to get through because I don’t like reading but I’ll still do it!”

The writer waved her hand dismissively; she wouldn’t be fooled by false eagerness. “You don’t need to do that. They’re long and convoluted; you have better things to do with your time.”

“Well then we have to celebrate it at least! Dinner, yakiniku, all on me tonight! Think of it as a congratulatory dinner for your success.”

Haruko coughed nervously and stammered out the writer’s total.

(Name) paid wordlessly, eyes still directed towards Bokuto, who looked at her excitedly. She sighed in exasperation. “Fine.”

He grinned, immediately reaching for the bags set to the side of the small counter.

“Let me carry that for you.”

She couldn’t protest because Bokuto had already taken both his bags and her own in both of his large hands. She frowned.

“I can carry them y’know.” She retorted, “I’m not that much of a weakling.”

“I haven’t gone to the gym today; you don’t to be an Olympian if you don’t work for the gains.” He flexed jokingly, the sleeve of his t-shirt tightening as he began to do curls with the bags in his left hand. She rolled her eyes.

“See you soon Haruko-chan.” She farewelled before leaving the store. Bokuto looked over his shoulder and grinned at the girl before he followed after the writer.

 

* * *

 

She found herself tucked away in the corner of the infamous yakiniku place Bokuto had been talking about. From the response of the owner, it seemed that the wing spiker had come around more often than he originally let on.

(Name) had been introduced to the owner and most of the wait staff – specifically being referred to as his “new friend (Surname)”, and that in itself was a little off putting. The owner in question, a middle aged man who Bokuto only referred to as Yamada, was pleasant and polite, recommending the best cuts and even offering to cook for them so they could chat. They declined the offer but appreciated the hospitality.

Bokuto had promised her privacy, and from the hushed tones he and Yamada spoke in while she perused the menu, it seemed that he was sure on keeping it.

And by the time their food arrived and the grilling had begun, Bokuto had balked up the courage to ask more about her.

It took guts, she would admit that, but a part of her should have known that the invitation would have been more than just a free meal.

Nothing in life was really free.

So she would indulge him. Just as payment.

“So you’re not from Tokyo, right?”

She popped a strip of rib meat in her mouth and shook her head.

“North or south?”

She swallowed her mouthful. “I’m from Osaka, spent most of my life there.”

“Born and bred?”

She flinched. “I guess. I was born there, spent about six years in (Country) before I moved back. I haven’t left Japan since.”

Bokuto nodded thoughtfully as he chewed his own portion of the grilled meat. “So your surname comes from your dad’s side?”

‘Ah,’ she thought, ‘I need to tread lightly.’

“Mother’s.” She picked at her bowl of rice with the ends of her chopsticks. “I was legally Kobayashi (Name) when I was born, but the moment I started writing professionally I changed it to her surname instead.” She shrugged. “Seemed more appropriate, y’know? My father had a fit when he heard that I had changed it legally to (Surname).”

“How’d your mum feel about it?”

Her grip tightened on the chopsticks. She didn’t answer.

Bokuto frowned, if only for a moment, before he dropped a few more cooked cuts into her bowl. “When I was younger, my dad I and used to sit around and listen to music a lot.”

She didn’t answer.

“He used to work in this big conglomerate that constantly collaborated with people from overseas. We used to live in this decently sized house in the suburbs and he’d always invite some people over for business. I never got involved, people in suits don’t tend to care about sports, but these guys liked music. Dad loved it; he said that it made conversing with them a little easier since they all enjoyed the same hobby and the same genre.

“He’d show them all the old classics of Japan, and they’d show us their favourite songs. It always ended up being old kind of western rock music – that type of music that played in the background when your parents were you age when they started falling in love and finding out who they were. And even though I would never understand what they were saying, I really liked the music. It sounded good, it got my blood pumping; believe it or not, I once heard ‘Eye of the Tiger’ in my head during a game in middle school.”

(Name) stifled a laugh.

“And then he stopped listening, guess he gave up with trying to relax and spend time with me. That’s understandable, I guess, since I was even more of a handful when I was younger.

“But the music stayed with me, which was annoying. And you’d think it would be helpful when we started learning English because they are _all_ in English but nope, turns out you can’t magically become book-smart over night.”

“English is overrated anyway,” (Name) admitted, “all language is stupid really. There are too many rules and patterns that don’t make sense. And then translation is always off.”

Bokuto smiled softly. At least she was talking again.

“What happened to your dad?”

He swallowed heavily. “Parents got a divorce and he moved to Hokkaido after getting transferred to a different branch.” The spiker waved his hand dismissively. “We still talk; there weren’t any hard feelings about it. I guess younger me kind of knew it was coming by that point. The old guy is much happier now than he ever was with mum, and mum did perfectly fine raising me so it’s all good.”

He looked at her pointedly, watching for any change in expression or aura. She remained still, barely poking at her serving. He poured her another glass of water.

“Mum wanted me to keep his name, and since they were on good terms I agreed. No one ever really questioned it, and since it’s on the rarer side of family names I’m surprised that it isn’t talked about more.”

“It’s just a name anyway,” the writer mumbled, “you have power over what you make of it in the end.”

“I’m glad you said that because I really want to call you (Name) instead of (Surname).”

She blinked confusedly. “That’s a bit improper, don’t you think?”

“Well sure, but do I look like a proper type of guy?”

(Name) smirked. _No, he did not._

“And besides,” Bokuto lifted his glass of water closer to his lips, “(Name) just suits you a little bit better than (Surname). It sounds too formal, to... Not you. And you can call me by something else if you want. Most of my friends call me Bo since it’s shorter. ‘Bokuto Koutarou’ is a bit of a mouthful, isn’t it? Like, why so many ‘ou’ sounds, parents?”

He pouted as he drunk, and (Name) could only stare at him blankly as he did.

Since when did they decide they were friends?

And why was she unbothered by the new revelation?

 

* * *

 

“So you do this every night?”

“Mhm.”

“Like you don’t go out and do things with other people?”

“I don’t particularly like people.”

“You like me though.”

She smiled.

“You’re an exception Bo, yes.”

“Then I’m making it my duty to have you go outside once a week-”

“The yakiniku dinner counts for this week.”

“You’re no fun, (Name)-chan!”

The woman smirked, taking in the very prominent pout he wore upon his features.

Another week had passed, and to (Name)’s surprise Bokuto had somehow weaved him into her life more flawlessly than she ever anticipated. It was natural for him to be there, as if he was always a part of her life, even when she was living in Osaka. And from their dinner the previous week, it was clear that the man had no intentions of leaving her.

And that scared her.

She thought he knew too much; he believed he didn’t know enough.

That evening had been dinner again – Bokuto only seemed to be free for dinner due to his demanding training regime – which in itself had been a rather unexpected affair. (Name) had been in the process of making cup ramen while Bokuto arrived at the apartment with his own plastic bag full of his own snacks from the konbini.

But with the food long gone, the owlish male had sought to examine the writer in her natural habitat. And, uncannily enough, he had chosen a good evening.

Her writing process wasn’t necessarily a process in the strictest of definitions. She wrote down ideas when she could – brief lines and descriptions on scrap paper and post-its that she then left hanging on the walls of her apartment – and then when she felt she had enough, she would craft, would refine the lines a little more so they flowed the way she wished and organise the clutter that she could not get out of her mind.

Notebooks were spread haphazardly across her kotatsu, her legs sprawled out similarly underneath while Bokuto sat opposite her, chin rested on his folded forearms.

“I find writing fun.”

 _Liar_.

It wasn’t a big one, (Name) was sure, but untruth was still untruth no matter how much is meant or said.

Whether or not Bokuto picked up on it was beyond her as the furrow in his brow comically deepened.

‘How can someone be so _expressive_?'

“And I find volleyball fun but I still do other things.” He countered.

(Name) held her tongue. In their slow progressing friendship (could this be called friendship in all actuality?), she learned that Bokuto, although ditsy at times, had an affinity for pointing out the many flaws in her being, as if they were leaves on a low-hanging branch.

In the back of her mind she could hear Mattsun reprimand her.

 _Don’t be an ass_.

She put her pen down. “Are you really that bored?”

He nodded vigorously. “I don’t think I’ve ever been so bored; and I went to one of Kuroo’s biochemistry lectures this year.”

She should have been more offended. Then again, the rut she had been stuck in through the past year could only be described as boring so perhaps the wing spiker had a point. Again.

She frowned. There it was again; his stupid correct analysis.

“C’mon (Name),” she still hadn’t gotten used to that, “there’s nothing wrong with having a break.” His foot nudged hers every few words, knocking it around carelessly. “You like music.” He continued. The writer shrugged.

“I may be a hermit but I’m not completely alien Bo. Who doesn’t like music?” She responded matter-of-factly.

Bokuto tapped his hands on the table.

“Exactly, which is why-”

His hands disappeared for a second as they retrieved his phone. There were a few moments of silence, forcing (Name) to tilt her head in curiosity as she watched. Her Bluetooth speakers turned on and then, a piano melody erupted from them at a volume inhumanly possible. Bokuto lit up like a Christmas tree as he watched the recognition appear on the woman’s face.

“Elton John?”

“Soft rock solves everyone’s problems.” He dismissed, waving one hand while he pulled himself up onto his feet.

She scoffed. He had a point. Again. She wouldn’t admit it verbally, but she would gladly acknowledge it in silence.

“Blue jean baby, LA lady~ Seamstress for the band~”

Bokuto flopped down next to her this time, their torsos perpendicular to one another as the owlish man continued to sing. His face got closer and closer and-

“You don’t have to get louder while I’m right here.” (Name) pushed his forehead back with two fingers. It made him laugh in tandem with the rhythm of the song.

“(Name)~”

The woman bit her lip as her companion waggled his eyebrows at her, still pressing closer to her side. He stopped coming closer, opting to rest his chin on her shoulder as he waited.

“You know what’s cool about owls?” The question caught her off guard and forced her to look directly at him. “Their eyes are massive, which means their entire field of vision is downright incredible.”

It was a harmless fact – one she already knew – and yet it unnerved her. The way he had said it didn’t it well in her thoughts. It was almost predatory, a warning that told her she couldn’t hide anything from him, and that he wasn’t as ditzy as he made himself out to be.

His golden eyes bore into her. They shone with an analytical gleam she had not seen in him before. And the longer the prolonged eye contact progressed, the more (Name) was certain that everything had fallen right into Bokuto’s plan.

This was the confrontation he was acting on; he wanted answers from her and he knew he could get them.

She watched the thought flash through him.

_You’re broken. Let me help you._

He knew.

And now she knew he knew.

And he probably knew that she knew that he knew.

Which meant the ball was on her side of the court.

She could pretend she didn’t know – if she couldn’t kite the spiky haired male then perhaps playing dumb could be the newfound speciality she used – but instead she chose to concede.

It was easier.

Her pride was already damaged beyond repair.

“What’s it gonna take for you to permanently forget?” She asked, noticing the way his brows pinched together.

“I’m your friend, (Name), I’m not forgetting anything”, he answered as he maintained the close distance, “but I can be distracted for a while if you just indulge me for a few minutes.”

(Name) blinked one, twice, three times in sheer contemplation. If she obliged for long enough they maybe she could weasel her way out of the entire situation. On the other hand, she couldn’t help but feel that the spiker already had a backup plan for that scenario.

“Hold me closer Tiny Dancer~”

“Count the headlights on the highway~”

Bokuto perked up at her, responding with the next line emphatically. He grabbed her right hand, pulling her up to stand right in front of his own before he continued to sing. Her knees knocked against the kotatsu, the papers jumping from the impact, before she was sprawled out against his chest and swaying to the melody in unison with him.

His large hands found purchase on her waist, holding her close and steady as he guided her around the room. It was sloppy, not an actual waltz or tango, but enough to hold the rhythm of the song and make her laugh at random points when they bumped into the corner of a table or shelf or sofa.

And then the songs changed, but Bokuto remained with her, merely singing along as if it were his song.

(Name) sang along, albeit a little softer than her companion, and let her hands rest on his shoulders. She needed to keep a clear head for the moment; one never knew when the predator went on the attack.

 

* * *

 

Oikawa stood behind the curtain drawn in front of his body. The balcony door was opened, letting the music waft in from his neighbour’s apartment into his own.

He watched, eyes narrowed in concentration as he followed the couple’s – no, _pair’s_ – movements in the small confines of the balcony.

Bokuto’s hands were on (Name)’s waist while her own rested lightly on his shoulders. They swayed to the steady swing rhythm, the sounds of the drum beat being washed over by the chorus of trumpets of the short interlude.

The wing spiker took her hand in his and spun her outwards from him with the flick of his wrist, then pulled her pack in, much closer than before.

Oikawa’s grip on the curtains tightened when he caught the expression his neighbour wore.

She was _smiling_.

And it wasn’t the half smirk he recalled seeing in one of their first encounters, no. Writer-chan had smiled; a small and genuine one.

The brunet wasn’t too familiar with the song playing in the background, nor was he too familiar with any of the songs Bokuto – and shockingly his neighbour – appeared to enjoy. But even if he couldn’t recognise or understand most if not all the English lyrics, he could tell when something was teeth-rotting levels sweet.

And dancing on a balcony to the song that repeated the lines “Can’t take my eyes off of you” raised numerous red flags.

It made him sick.

Oikawa’s eyes widened as the couple – no, _PAIR_ , fuck – continued to spin in time to the beat, keeping a close eye on the way his teammate dipped his partner low, never breaking eye contact. Her hair brushed the tiled floor, and for a moment Bokuto let go and caught her again, her body dropping a few centimetres at the action. Oikawa caught the grin on his face, and Bokuto laughed at the woman’s expression.

The sound of the writer’s laughed mingled with the song in the background. He felt his eye twitch.

The setter turned himself away from the sight, back brushing against the smooth material of the curtains. As if he couldn’t get any more annoyed at the woman, he had to see _that_.

He steadied his breathing, calming down whatever nerve he had left and begrudgingly turned back to face the other balcony.

The song was still playing.

She wasn’t laughing anymore.

Bokuto held (Name) against his chest, arms crossed over her shoulders and around her torso while their hands were still clasped together. The two-toned haired male rested his chin atop of her head. They faced the distant skyline of Metropolitan Tokyo, just barely blocked by the residential one of Bunkyo, and stood in silence.

The writer looked content, at peace – much calmer than Oikawa had ever seen her – while Bokuto-

Oikawa’s grip became vice like around the material of the curtains

He knew that look, knew it all too well.

It was the same look girls had given him all though the later years of his adolescence, the same look that would normally brush his ego in ways that Iwaizumi said weren’t healthy for the average person.

Pure, unfiltered adoration.

Unbridled affection.

Above the music, Bokuto’s voice rung out.

“Y’know it really has been bothering me...” He tilted his head slightly, “why do you like music so much?”

The setter instinctively leaned forward-

“My mother was a music teacher in (Country).” Came her answer.

Bokuto paused. “Before she died?”

In un-Writer-chan fashion she hummed in affirmation, stone faced and calm. Oikawa watched as Bokuto tightened his grip to comfort her.

And that’s when he knew he had to walk away.

Oikawa pushed himself away from the glass door and hobbled awkwardly – angrily, aggressively, _down-right manly_ – towards his bedroom where he proceeded to collapse on to the soft mattress.

He wanted to figure out want parts she would let slip, what else was hidden behind the goddamn mask he knew she was wearing around every but-

Bokuto Koutarou.

He balled his fists angrily, hitting his mattress in frustration.

This wasn’t a part of his plan.

This wasn’t meant to happen.

From the last time the three of them had seen each other, Kuroo’s words had floated around in Oikawa’s head. _Do what you do best_ could mean a lot of things, but the only way the setter could understand it was to use her, to put her into play the same way he did to the people on his team.

She had her life going for her, even if she had very little left going for her outside of her career, and Oikawa figured there was something of worth in it. As far as he was concerned, she was just as, if not more, broken than he wa, and her need for reassurance surpassed even his own selfish tendencies.

He looked stronger in comparison.

And the thought alone was enough to keep him motivated through a few sessions of physiotherapy.

All that was left to do was reconcile – even if his pride wouldn’t allow him to do so, it needed to happen. There was only so much Oikawa could utilise when he was being held at more than arm’s length away from her. So he resolved to ‘apologising’ to her that evening, ever since he caught the writer’s editor in the hallway outside of their apartments.

And that was the plan until earlier that day when the bed-headed middle blocker had rung him up.

“Bokuto’s in a good mood,” he had said, “don’t fuck him over.”

Admittedly, Oikawa didn’t know what that had meant at the time, but suddenly everything made a whole lot of sense.

Tarou-chan was in a good mood because of Writer-chan. And Writer-chan was feeling better because of Tarou-chan.

It made a lot of sense that they would find each other in one way or another; from what he could tell Bokuto and the estranged Fuyutsuki-san were quite similar in personalities. Bokuto and Fuyutsuki-san radiated confidence and pride as if second nature, even if their levels varied a considerable about. There was a similar insecurity that existed between them, one that an apathetic writer like his neighbour could overlook because she acted as if she only ever saw the good in people, never the bad.

And from the moment he laid eyes on the couple – _PAIR, NOT COUPLE_ – he understood that Bokuto could be the same weakness that Fuyutsuki was to the writer.

He took things to heart, carried unnecessary burdens and emotions that weighed down on him. He willingly took guilt from others to ease their pain because Bokuto Koutarou was a much kinder soul than Oikawa Tooru could ever be.

And with a person like that in her life again, Oikawa knew that he could break (Surname) (Name) if he _really_ wanted to.

And a part of him wanted to.

But at the same time, something deep within him stopped him from doing so.

Because Bokuto was different when compared to Fuyutsuki. If anything, he was _better_ for her.

Where Fuyutsuki held subconscious fear in pushing the writer, Bokuto appeared to have none, and he willingly pressed and prodded for answers to questions not usually asked in civil conversation. Mixed with the charisma that almost put Oikawa’s to shame, it was clear that the wing spiker was doing more good than harm.

The look in Bokuto’s eyes appeared in front of the setter, projected on the ceiling as if he were watching a film in slow motion.

He couldn’t do it – he _shouldn’t_ do it.

If he were to break Writer-chan, he would break Tarou-chan.

And even though Writer-chan appeared to be the type of person that willingly let time heal her wounds, Tarou-chan was not the same type of person. He was a social creature, and his natural persona that people found endearing and supportive would only work to crush him into nothing.

Kuroo’s voice echoed in his mind.

 _Don’t fuck him over_.

“Use her, don’t use her- make up your mind Tetsu-chan...” Oikawa grumbled to himself, running a hand down his face.

And as quickly as the analysis came, so did his insecurity.

He had lost his other friends to the Writer Next Door too.

 

* * *

 

Bokuto awoke to shuffling, which was strange, because Kuroo didn’t make that much noise when he moved around their apartment and he himself wasn’t that much of a light sleeper.

So when he opened his eyes and let the morning sunlight fill his vision, he wasn’t sure of what he was going to see.

But of all the thoughts that ran through his head, he wasn’t anticipating a tall suit-clad man rifling through the various papers and notebooks scattered across the kotatsu in front of him.

Bokuto blinked.

He and Kuroo didn’t own a kotatsu.

“Sorry, didn’t mean to wake you.”

The male sat up, bleary eyed and yawning with one hand covering is mouth, the other scratching his neck.

He glanced around the room, taking note of the still unfamiliar surroundings. When his gaze landed on the bookshelf him put the final pieces of the puzzle together.

He was still at (Name)’s apartment. The spiker had begged her to let her stay over that evening, and she had given him enough pillows and blankets to make the couch a little more comfortable. That and a shirt that had been far too big to be called her own to sleep in for the night, and Bokuto was content with the last minute hospitality (Name) had given him.

Which, in itself, was curious, especially when he had interrogated her so suddenly the night before.

Maybe he should apologise for that.

“What’s the time?”

“10:44am.”

He nodded. He didn’t have morning practice or any other classes that day – thank God.

“Okay. Who are you?”

“I’m Hanamaki Takahiro, one of-” He hesitated. “I’m one of (Surname)’s friends.” The standing male titled his head. “You’re Bokuto, right? The wing Spiker on Ryuujin Nippon, number 16?”

“That’s me; Bokuto Koutarou. You play, yeah?”

“I played with Oikawa in high school, nice guess. The height gives it away, huh?”

“It’s pretty obvious; a guy as big as you has to play a height dominated sport. Middle blocker?”

“Good try, but I’m a wing too. But my offence has always been better than my defence.”

Bokuto nodded in acknowledgment, absent-mindedly analysing the player in front of him. Even with his mind foggy from sleep, he could tell Hanamaki was a strong player, especially when considering he had grown up and played with an infamous setter like Oikawa Tooru.

The well-dressed male pointed in the direction of their mutual friend’s bedroom, interrupting Bokuto’s train of thought. “How’d you meet this one?”

“Oikawa.”

He raised a brow. “Are they on good terms now?”

“Oiks doesn’t mention her, (Name) pretends he doesn’t exist,” he replied, “but I stumbled across her on the balcony and thought she needed another friend.”

Makki sighed, “Stubborn ass.”

“Which one?”

“Yes.”

They both chuckled.

“They’ll come around eventually, maybe Mattsun will have to smack some sense into them both.”

“Mattsun?”

“Another mutual friend; he played with me and Oikawa and another guy in Miyagi and he’s pretty close with (Surname) as well. At this rate he’s the only one I think can force them into talking.”

“Did they talk before their disagreement?”

“I’m not sure, but the hostility is making it hard for me and Mattsun to be near either of them and that’s a bad thing.”

Bokuto nodded thoughtfully.

He could work with that.

“Do you know anything about this?”

When he finally withdrew himself from his thoughts, he focused on the stacks of papers that had been abandoned the night before.

Bokuto shook his head. “Writer stuff, I guess. (Name) doesn’t bother telling me, I don’t bother asking her. I’m only here for ramen.”

“It’s a good brand, right?”

“Too expensive per pack.”

“Not too expensive for someone like (Surname)-sensei.”

The humour in Hanamaki’s voice made Bokuto chuckle again, and it distracted him for a moment as the former scooped one of the stacks of paperinto his hand and began leafing through them.

“Are you sure you should be reading that?”

He nodded. “(Surname) wanted me to come pick something up,” he tapped the A4 sheets with his free hand, “and since she sounded happy I figured that this is the stuff.”

“When did she call you?”

“7 – She was _definitely_ happy since she doesn’t get up until midday.”

Hanamaki moved to lean against the opposite wall, dropping his briefcase at his feet so he could rifle through the papers with both hands. It grew quiet between them, and every time Bokuto yawned, the editor would turn the page. His eyes grew wider with each one.

And then he stopped, taking longer to read whatever was on a set of a few pages that now rested at the top of the pile. Instead of putting them to the back, he separated them, and held them in his other hand.

“Is it good?” Bokuto asked, genuine curiosity filling his voice. He still hadn’t read any of (Name)’s word. Maybe he’d have to do that in his spare time.

Akaashi might have some of her work.

The light-haired male’s eyes flickered up from the page to Bokuto’s and then back down again. He licked his lips and swallowed the lump in his throat.

“It’s (Name)’s work,” he answered, “of course it’s good.”

Hanamaki bent down and picked up the discarded briefcase, putting only a small sample of the papers and locking it in a series of fast movements. Bokuto couldn’t keep up with the speed.

“Are you sure you don’t need all of them? I could just tell (Surname)-”

“I only needed a sample few, that one seemed like a good option. Just don’t tell her yeah? I’ll let her know myself.” Hanamaki admitted as he placed the rest of them back down, rearranging the table so things were a bit neater. Bokuto watched, still tired from the sudden awakening. The actions should have set off the alarms in his head but they didn’t, instead he was too focused on what was on his schedule for later in the afternoon.

Bokuto nodded anyway. “Alright then... I’m going to go get ready and that.”

Hanamaki nodded and gathered the rest of his things, “Nice meeting you Bokuto-san, I’ll see you around.”

It wasn’t a question, but Bokuto nodded in confirmation as he stretched out the sore kinks in his neck and back.

He didn’t realise Hanamaki had practically run out of the apartment.

 

* * *

 

“Get ready fucker, I won the bet and demand payment in the form of sex!”

Mattsun looked to the entrance of their small apartment, phone still pressed to his ear as he stared blankly at Makki.

“I’ll call you back Iwaizumi, Hiro’s spouting some bullshit that I don’t like.”

The middle blocker hung up the phone and dropped it on to the sofa next to him.

“The fuck?”

“Oikawa and (Surname)? Yeah, the _definitely_ aren’t gonna fuck.”

Mattsun scoffed. “You have work in ten minutes and you come to tell me this? Babe, they will, trust me.”

“No, no, no, no, no you don’t understand!” Makki threw off his shoes and began opening his briefcase, pulling out three sheets of paper from within with a series of ink splotches and crossed out words. Every ‘no’ was punctuated with a long step forward as he crossed the room to the other male. “There’s an actual dude in the picture – Ryuujin Nippon’s Number 16!”

Mattsun blinked. “The dude with the fringe?”

“No, no – the dude with the white and black hair!”

The taller male laughed and waved dismissively. “Not her type, that’s too much energy for (Name) to handle. If it was fringe boy then maybe I’d believe you.”

“Oh yeah?” Makki tilted his head. “Then why was it that when I went to pick up some samples from her, I found him sleeping on her couch wearing her favourite bed shirt? Answer me _that_ , Issei!”

The latter stared back at the editor and shrugged. “Maybe it’s a part of her whole ‘don’t be an ass’ things we’re trying to get her to do.” He patted the other male on the shoulder. “It’s a good piece evidence for your argument, but it’s not enough to win the bet.”

Makki brandished the three pages in front at the blocker’s face. “Read this and tell me that’s not about Number 16!”

There was a moment of silence, the couple’s gazes challenging each other concede first. Mattsun sighed and took them from Makki’s grasp before settling down to read what their friend had written.

The atmosphere was still and stagnant as he read the script, immediately recognising (Surname)’s style and handwriting. The words jumped out at him, and as he kept turning the pages he images flashed through his mind at a speed that was not possible.

It was good.

 _Really_ good.

But it wasn’t about Number 16.

“You’re an idiot and I stand my ground.”

“ _You’re the idiot!_ ”

Mattsun turned the pages around and pointed at a stanza, “Did we read the same thing babe? This whole part here is about Oikawa. And it’s gonna sell. And it’s gonna sell _because_ it’s about Oikawa.”

Makki scoffed and snatched the papers back. “I should have known you wouldn’t have gotten the nuances of her writing,” the sheets were shoved back into the briefcase haphazardly, “that whole poem was about Number 16. I wouldn’t expect the person who doesn’t work hands on with (Surname)’s writing on the daily to pick up on the meaning in her words.”

“Huh, but I’m sure a friend like me would know her better than you.”

The world went silent, and Mattsun’s blood ran cold as the words left his lips faster that he could stop them.

 _Too far_.

“Babe-”

“Don’t even talk to me right now, Issei.”

Makki moved away from the couch just as Mattsun reached out to try and nab his forearm.

“No, babe, we were being sassy – you took a shot at me and I took a pot shot back and it was poor form and I’m sorry-”

“I don’t wanna here it Matsukawa-”

The blocker leant around to catch the light-haired male shove his feet back into his dress shoes.

“Babe-”

The door slammed shut and Mattsun sighed, letting his arm drop to his side. He glanced at his phone that lay next to his thigh. In a fluid motion, he picked it up and dialled an all too familiar number.

“Hello Mrs Watanabe? Yeah it’s Issei. Yep, your biggest box of cream puffs for delivery again. By tonight if you could.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fake-kawa is the W O R S T kawa  
> I wish I didn't have to write my baby as an ass but if the plot asks for it, then it asks for it.  
> And he wasn't even in the chapter for that long!  
> But there is Bokuto, coming in real clutch like the Best Boy he is.  
> FUN FACT: Balcony Scene is might be one of my favourite moments in the entire story - I'm not even playing I love that moment and I will fight everyone who says otherwise.
> 
> I hope you enjoyed this veeery long chapter of the story; consider it a Christmas present from me to you! I hope you've all had a wonderful holiday season, no matter what you celebrate, and I hope it has been a time of healing and peace for you all. I should have the next part out before the New Year but if I don't, then I hope you all have a safe and happy New Year as well <3 <3


	11. Steps

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Honesty is the first step to not being an ass.
> 
> Why was this concept so hard for her to understand?

_ March, 2018 _

Honesty is the first step to stop being an ass.

_Honesty is the first step to stop being an ass._

**_Honesty is the first step to stop being an ass._ **

**_ Honest is the first step to- _ **

“How has the writing been going (Surname)-san?”

“Fine.”

_Fuck._

**_ -stop being an ass. _ **

It was their first session of the year, and a meeting that the writer was reluctant in having. But she made a promise to Hanamaki and Mattsun that she would work on the Feelings thing.

Yeah she promised to work on the Limpy situation as well, but the couple were too demanding.

There were only so many blows her pride could take in a few weeks.

(Name) exhaled and relaxed her body, a feeble attempt at Vulnerability that she was sure she would not get used to. “I’m writing things – different things – but it’s still not...” She struggled for the word, something that hadn’t really happened in years but seemed to be more and more prevalent each day.

And when she settled, her stomach churned.

“I’m not satisfied.”

“And why do you think that is?”

She glared. “Doc if I knew, I would have fixed it by now.”

Doctor Nakamura quirked a brow at the writer.

_Transparency is the second step to stop being an ass._

“Have you ever considered why you write in the first place, (Surname)-san?” Inquired the older woman as she glanced from her clipboard to the writer. “You mentioned many months ago that writing is all you’ve got left.... Why is that?”

The (h/c)-haired woman paused and narrowed her eyes.

She had forgotten how much she let slip in their first sessions together. It was bad form on her part, but commendable on the therapist’s. Nakamura remembered, and whether it was from her own volition or from the notes she kept, it impressed (Name) that she was able to call out the writer in such a well timed manner.

“Are you sure you want to open that bottle today, Doc?” The writer asked, arms folded over her chest as a means of her last line of defence. Nakamura nodded confidently, pen poised and ready to take notes.

“I have questions, you have answers. All these sessions require a bit of back and forth in order to truly understand your inner self.”

There was silence for a few moments before (Name) conceded.

“I write because it’s all I really know how to do...”

“You seem sure of that.”

“I am.”

“How do you know?”

“My brain doesn’t do the maths and sciences, nor does it particularly enjoy the immense research and dedication of the other humanities. I don’t make friends easily, and I can’t emote like a decent human being. But writing – that’s simple. I didn’t need to think that hard before my career; the stories just came naturally. Like, I could wake up and pump a story out and send it off to the Gunzo and that’d be it. But now it’s a hassle, and everything’s a hassle and life revolves around my hassles and I really don’t want to do it anymore.”

The words kept coming out, a leak that had turned into a gaping hole in the side of her reservoir. Nakamura’s pen moved at a similar speed.

“Did you only start writing because you were good at it?”

She faltered. No, she hadn’t.

“Why did you then?”

(Name) shrugged. “Why do we breathe?”

Nakamura paused her movements and glanced up at the writer from above her glasses.

“Do you draw from experience when you write, (Surname)-san?” The ticking from the clock punctuated the silence. “Your stories tend to give away a little more than you may anticipate – maybe it’s because I’m very interested in knowing more about you than the average reader... But there are concerns I have-”

“We’re all concerned about something, there are other things than the ones you have with me.” (Name) interjected, tightening her arms closer to her chest.

**_Transparency is the second step to stop being an ass._ **

“You are more defensive than I have ever seen you... Are you bothered by my intrusiveness or is it something else?”

(Name) blinked, stunned at Nakamura’s sudden retreat.

“I’m always bothered by nosy people. I’m working on the whole Emotions thing though.”

“Is it because of what happened in the New Year?”

(Name)’s stomach dropped Nakamura tapped her pen against the clipboard.

“Hanamaki-san told me it was best to hear it from you since even he doesn’t know the full story.”

**_ Honesty is the first step to stop being an ass. _ **

**_ Transparency is the second step to stop being an ass. _ **

The patient unfolded her arms, letting her still clenched fists rest on her uncrossed knees. Her back was flush against the chair’s backing, and she angled her head so that she could stare her therapist in the eye.

Change could not happen overnight – she of all people understood that – but if she wanted to make things better then she had to be active in what was happening.

“Remember how I told you I saw myself in someone else?”

Nakamura nodded.

“Turns out I hate me more than I originally thought I did.”

The therapist remained silent, remained ready to interject as she waited for her patient to continue.

“I took someone for granted.” She admitted. “She never really took things to heart when we were younger, but I guess ever since I moved away from Osaka she’s been feeling left out of my life.”

“Did you feel like you missed out her friendship?”

The writer shrugged. “Our relationship was give and take in the unrequited forms; she would give me information I didn’t need, I would take without any qualms. She knew that, I knew that – I didn’t think she would have complaints but...”

Nakamura tilted her head.

“I’m used to moving people in the way I want; it makes life easier that way, and most people don’t notice. It helps me write, makes my characters realistic. I always thought she was one of them – that she would know that I was doing what I was doing. Turns out that wasn’t the case and that makes me an asshole.”

“Now, now, you should use less definitive terms, (Surname)-san.”

“Asshole.”

Nakamura frowned and (Surname) shrugged in response.

“I call it like I see it.”

“You should give yourself more credit where credit is due.” The therapist countered.

“What credit? I turned away one of my only friends because I don’t seem to understand People despite having written about People for most of my adult-life.”

“People are not the same as characters-”

“I know that, Doc, don’t patronise me.”

**_ Transparency is the second step to stop being an ass. _ **

“Was this the only thing that happened at New Years?”

Her silence was loud and clear. _No, it wasn’t._

“Who was it that you saw yourself in?”

(Name) hesitated, if only for a moment. “The ass I live next door to.”

“He’s the exact same person, Doc. Sometimes it feels like I’m looking in a mirror at myself and it shouldn’t freak me out but it does because he’s _such an asshole_. And that means _I’m_ an asshole – and trust me I knew that about myself for years but I didn’t realise I was the biggest asshole on the planet, Doc.”

“Are you sure that _this_ is who you really are?”

“Are you implying I’m actively _trying_ to be a complete asshole?”

“Are you?”

_Am I?_

The writer shook her head. “I don’t think I am. I’m just a terrible person by nature.”

The response made Nakamura sigh, and (Name) almost felt guilty for the action.

“Like I said, (Surname)-san, give yourself more credit where it’s due. Hanamaki said you’ve made a friend; that’s an improvement.”

(Name) frowned. She didn’t think her therapist had any right in saying what was and was not an improvement – Nakamura had barely been in her life for a substantial amount of time.

Hanamaki, maybe.

But the question of how he knew was beyond her. As far as she was concerned, the two had no knowledge of each other’s existence.

“Hanamaki tells you a lot of things, doesn’t he?”

“We meet every now and then for his problems,” Nakamura disclosed, “sometimes that includes you.”

“Glad to hear he’s sorting himself out too... Guy probably has more problems than me.” (Name) looked to the therapist, who only stared back, genuinely pondering the comment from the writer.

“Tell me about your friend. Are they nice?”

“Loud.” Was the first word that left the writer’s mouth, and (Name) frowned at the immediate choice of words. “It’s not obnoxious, just different. He enjoys talking, I don’t mind listening. Charismatic, easy to like – it’s very annoying how quickly we fell into place.”

Nakamura hummed, nodding along as she described the male. “He sounds very family to this first friend you are in disagreement with.”

“He is. It’s unnerving.” She folded her arms. “But it works, and I’m okay that it does.”

There was a moment of hesitation.

“There’s something else, isn’t there?”

**_ Honesty is the first step to stop being an ass. _ **

_Why was this concept so hard for her to understand?_

Curse her pride.

“Is it bad if I don’t trust, Doc?”

“Trust who?”

“Anyone.”

(Name)’s knuckled turned white at the bend, and she felt her pride take a solid hit in her sternum.

“I think there is no problem in being wary of other people who concern or frighten you... But to be cautious of everyone is a little concerning.”

The writer nodded. “Thought so.”

“Why are you so unsure of people?”

There were a few reasons (Name) could think of.

There were even fewer that she wanted to share.

The main reason that sided on both camps was this; that people held more power in relationships than they realised, that people could be easily fixed and even more easily broken – and she wasn’t ready for all that.

Not again.

“I don’t think it’s worth it, getting involved with a mess like me.” She determined. “Too much drama and bullshit, not nearly enough incentive to stay.”

There was a thick and heavy silence that filled the room. (Name) frowned. Perhaps she said too much.

“Perhaps that is the incentive,” Nakamura mused, “that these people who enter your life stick around and get to know you better because they want to know you better. They obviously see something they are intrigued by, and that in itself is enough to want to stay

“Yes, that is risky since people can lose interest as easily as they gain it, but I think you as a person are able to know when to give and when to take. You’re an intelligent woman, (Surname), and I doubt you would let someone walk in and do as they please. And I have a feeling you already know who these people are in your life. I can’t tell you what to do and what not to do, but I can advise you to start making a little more effort in understanding someone _beyond_ the character you see them as, and to see them as the person they really are. Really, that’s what these people are doing to you whether you realise it or not. It’s up to you to determine if the scrutiniser is someone worth keeping around.

“And above all else, I think the moment you start to trust the people around you, maybe it will become easier to start trusting yourself.”

The writer pondered for a moment, much longer than she would ever like to admit, since the final words of her therapist were interesting. The perspective they brought was different, but even still she was hesitant.

_Trust is the third step to stop being an ass._

But trust in itself was a hard thing to come by, let alone give freely.

 

* * *

 

"Y’know a good editor would be here with me the entire event, not just drop me off in my waiting room.”

“That’s where you’re wrong; a good editor wouldn’t have made you come in the first place.”

(Name) shrugged her jacket off and threw it over the arm of the two-seater sofa, the heat of the room getting to her faster than she anticipated.

“You’re right, you are a Shit Editor.”

“Now, now (Name),” Hanamaki chided, “you’re here to talk about your collection of works for the first time in a public setting in a panel completely booked out the moment it was announced; your fans deserve answer and you deserve to give them to your loyal readers.”

She scoffed, “I have no problem with answering questions, I’m just not fond of the whole ‘being filmed’ thing that’s going on even though you said _it wouldn’t_.”

Hanamaki shrugged. (Surname) kicked his shin.

In previous years, (Name) attended the Tokyo International Literary Festival in order to sit in on talks from writers and publishers and critics and essayists that were far more qualified, were far more respected than she ever was.

Ever since its beginnings in 2013, (Name) had always travelled into the capital for a weekend in order to gain insight on the industry she had an interest in. It was an adventure, a bit of freedom her life in Osaka didn’t give her.

Last year, she found herself side by side with newly appointed editor Hanamaki, who had been all too surprised at the idea that the reclusive (Surname) actually wanted to interact with other creators on her own accord.

Obviously something got lost in translation between the two of them. (Name) enjoyed _watching_ other people – she didn’t want to _be_ the one _being watched_.

Alas, it was on her schedule for the month of March, and Hisakawa had approved of the appearance and once the ass approved then it was always much harder to repeal the decision.

(“What is this, the United Nations? He doesn’t get a veto vote – _I_ should get a veto vote!” (Name) had argued once the pair had returned to the confines of Hanamaki’s office. Her editor shrugged at her, and they both know full well there was really nothing that could be done without sacrificing the latter’s head.)

On the one hand, (Name) did mind the news much. If anything, there was a brief moment of excitement she felt deep within her stomach at the revelation. It was a platform where she could talk without reservations, where Hisakawa wasn’t breathing down her back and she could say what she wanted without fear of her career or contract.

Not that she didn’t already do that – but this event was justified!

But on the other hand, (Name) was livid. Not because of the panels she was assigned to, but rather because Hanamaki would not be there to help her through the entire ordeal.

The light-haired male was unavailable for the remainder of the evening having already taken a few days off in order to celebrate Mattsun’s birthday with some friends. She had not asked if Limpy was involved in the group, but either way she was annoyed at the editor’s actions.

He hadn’t even gotten another editor in the department to help with the schedule.

Who was she going to complain to when she wanted to go home? An event organiser? No – that was just plain rude.

She wasn’t an old lady for Christ’s sake.

“It’s just two days of, (Name), you’ll be fine.” Hanamaki soothed with a smile that one could only describe as kind. “You know I wanna be here with you, it’s just-”

“Your boyfriend-not-a-boyfriend comes first, Hanamaki, I know.” She supplied, watching as the editor frowned.

“He died when he opened your present.” Hanamaki commented. She shrugged.

“Of course he did,” she retorted, “I had to pull some major strings to score that.”

The item in question was a black card to one of the couple’s favourite restaurants in the Tokyo city centre – a high end bar and grill that they had only gone to once before when they first moved into the prefecture. Allegedly, the location in question had the best variety of hamburger steak the middle blocker had even seen and tried, the only down side was that it was all too expensive for an everyday treat.

The black card meant discounts for everything, all she needed to do was renew it every year to make sure her friend could keep eating well.

In her opinion, she could never top that. But even so, (Name) believed that her present to Hanamaki was still one of her best. What could possibly beat a pay rise to his annual that swamped what other editors in the department were earning by a landslide?

All-you-could-eat hamburger steak, probably.

“We’re gonna go there tonight before we all head out to Okinawa.” Hanamaki commented, making sure to let his smile remain as sincere as he hoped it was being. “I bet he’s gonna rinse the place for everything they have.”

“He better not, that card is under my name.”

Hanamaki laughed and she proceeded to kick him again.

She looked to her watch and frowned. “What time are you meeting the boys?”

The editor grabbed her wrist and manoeuvred it so he could read the watch’s face. He clicked his tongue. “Mattsun’s probably dropped off our luggage at the station already. We’re meant to have dinner at like 5 since our flight is at 8.”

The hands read 4:30.

The writer waved her hand at him, pushing away his forehead with a blank expression. “Don’t leave lover boy waiting, I don’t want him blaming me for the fact that you’re running late like you always do.”

Hanamaki frowned but proceeded to shrug on his coat anyway. “I’ll see you next week, yeah? Don’t do anything stupid in these panels.”

“Me, stupid? Pft, never.”

She laughed at his frown and waved once more before she was left alone in her waiting room.

 

* * *

 

There were a few bonuses in the Festival being held on a campus own by Tokyo University.

The main one was that (Name) knew where everything was, and with another half an hour of time to kill she sought to make good use of that knowledge.

Her waiting room was right near the lecture room she would be using for her seminar, and the old building in question was just a few hallways away from the secret stash of vending machines that didn’t cost an arm and a leg to use.

So she loitered around the cluster of vending machines, punching in a few numbers and retrieving various bags of chips to bring back to her waiting room. There were a few snack platters the event staff had provided, but a bag of (flavour) chips were better than crackers and dip.

As the writer rounded the corner of the hallway, she failed to notice the looming body at the opposite end.

“(Surname) (Name), what a pleasure to see you~”

She looked up and immediately narrowed her eyes as her gaze settled on the form slowly walking towards her.

As the figure neared, (Name) confirmed her suspicion and put a name to a face.

Honda Natsuki someone (Name) had not seen in years.

She was unsure as to whether or not she was glad to see her.

So she smiled and bowed politely at the woman, letting whatever instinctual hostility fade if but for a moment.

“Honda-san, it has been a while. How have you been?”

The chocolate haired woman waved her hand. “Fine, fine. I _would_ ask about you, but everyone in this industry and their mother already know _very well_.”

(Name) didn’t miss the way Natsuki’s eyes narrowed cunningly, analytically, as if she was trying to read through the mask the former had worn for her entire life. Her instincts flared in warning.

Natsuki had been the self proclaimed rival that (Name) never saw true value in acknowledging seriously. It was high school – three years that she wouldn’t even think about in her adulthood.

Granted, there was a joy in watching the former’s minute failures, but she never instigated anything beyond that.

Then again, (Name) was an ass; an even larger one during her years as a teen rather than in her adulthood.

And, in the same way (Name) was an ass, Natsuki was too.

The latter had always been a bit more blatant with her manipulation of the masses. It was a novice effort most days, and it was clear that the level of skill in life varied very greatly between the two.

But where Natsuki lacked, (Name) surpassed all expectations.

Where teachers praised Natsuki, they did not care for (Name).

Where students were fond of (Name), they overlooked Natsuki.

Their seniors loved their elegant underclassman Honda-chan.

Their juniors looked to their reliable upperclassman (Surname)-senpai.

The push and pull of their lives seemed to be almost natural; their differences clearer than a summer’s day.

But where Natsuki sought to please the people with power, (Name) recognised the power of the people.

From there, their differences only grew. Their only similarities existed in their desire to write. And that’s where they ended and, subsequently, were the rivalry allegedly began.

Natsuki wrote out of obligation and pride; her family were neck deep in the industry – a family lineage of publishers and editors and designers and writers – and it only made sense for the sole heir of Emerald Publishing to follow in her family’s footsteps one way or another.

(Name), however, wrote for the sake of writing; the power of the people could be exemplified with the power of the written word, and somewhere along the way it became her staple, her outlet of communicating with a world that did not completely understand her.

The rivalry only intensified at the end of their first year when (Name)’s very first submission to the Gunzo had been accepted and published. Natsuki’s eleventh had been denied.

From there it was simultaneously an uphill battle and a downwards slope. (Name)’s works were requested for the Kodansha-run magazine on a monthly basis while Natsuki continued to submit and be denied edition after edition after edition.

(Name) never jested her. Rejection of a writer’s work was a topic no one should mess with, no matter how much one disliked the other. Rejection, in their line of work, meant failure.

Somewhere along the way Natsuki stopped writing, at least to her knowledge. Their rivalry never ceased.

Perhaps in another life they could have been friends rather than enemies; allies who were complementary rather than opposing forces.

But when (Name) considered it, she knew it could never be possible. There were far, far too different after all.

(Name) never considered writing a competition; she saw no point in trying to best someone who was obviously cared more about titles and success over the work itself.. To Natsuki, it appeared that the former was a hurdle to leap over, to beat in the Game of Life because that’s what life was, a game.

And while (Name) could agree with that sentiment, she still didn’t see a need in goading the girl the same way she had been goaded.

“What have you been up to? You were attending university in Kyoto, correct?”

Her old rival tensed her shoulders. (Name) refrained from smirking in delight.

Most of their cohort had heard of Natsuki’s year as a ronin; her entrance exam results were well under the predictions she had been given and she was unable to enrol into any of her top choices.

Yes, (Name) was an asshole for bringing that up, as if people in recent months hadn’t made that clear enough.

“I graduated early,” Natsuki lied, “and now I work in the company in Osaka.”

_More like Daddy didn’t want his baby girl to bring shame to the family and saved her ass._

“That’s wonderful!” (Name) answered in faux delight. “So you’re working in the Literature Department at Emerald?”

The way Natsuki hesitated at the question was unexpected.

“Not yet, no. I’m working Shoujou Manga for the moment, just for experience.” The younger woman shrugged lightly. “All work is good work, am I right.”

She was wrong.

They both laughed.

They both wanted to die.

“I just wanted to say congratulations for both your books.”

The words were laced with venom, a familiar one she had heard throughout all her years in high school.

“Father goes on and on about the success of your works; he was a little disappointed to hear that you were already contracted to Kodansha after our graduation. Perhaps you can come back to Osaka, give our hometown business a little bit of a revenue boost?”

(Name) refrained from sneering at the collective pronoun.

“I like Tokyo a little too much unfortunately. There are too many commitments that I can’t necessarily abandon.”

“That’s a shame, really.” Natsuki folded her arms as she stared into the writer in front of her. “You know our alma mater is really proud of you. Who wouldn’t be~”

The writer titled her head.

_Was Natsuki holding a grudge? For this long?_

“One of the graduates is fully employed,” (Name) sarcastically commented, “truly an achievement for the ages.”

Natsuki’s eye twitched and (Name) was very sure that this encounter was not at all good natured.

“Of course you would say that...” The words were grumbled almost inaudibly, but (Name) caught on to them easily.

The latter opened her mouth to interject but was smoothly cut off by the former.

“Well I’m glad things are still going well for you,” Natsuki grinned bitterly, finally letting the pleasant facade fade away, “I expect nothing less from the Great (Surname) (Name)..”

And then she was gone.

 “(Surname)-sensei!”

The writer turned around and faced one of the main event organisers, his clipboard held against his chest as he strode towards her.

“Your seminar starts in ten minutes; I’ll escort you to the room.”

(Name) sighed inwardly and opened the packet of chips she acquired.

“People won’t mind if I eat during the thing, right?”

The man laughed good-naturedly.

She was serious about the request.

 

* * *

 

The seminar she was holding had been titled _“Dreamers and Modern Literature; Writing About Contemporary Life”_ and most, if not all, the attendees were in the age group of eighteen to thirty.

(Name) had been given a microphone and a chair that were positioned in the centre of the small stage at the top end of the room. In front of her was rows of seats, all filled with bodies and faces that she could and could not recognise. Some people were poised and ready to take notes, while others were simply leaning back and watching the event unfold.

She remained polite in the introduction before letting loose all while the encounter with Natsuki remained in her mind.

She spoke for the first hour about the writing process; about finding your narrative voice and style and playing with traditional literary conventions. She spoke at length about the inspiration for both her books – about how ‘A Moth to Flame’ was a story inspired by the cautionary tales people gave her as she began to accumulate a following, about how ‘Dragon Tears’ was a more introspective look on people as a whole and the motivations of society. She talked about her early stories, of the inspirations for her Gunzo pieces and how time and place and setting all make a work a piece of art.

People took their notes, trained their eyes on her form as she gestured and counted and slowly relaxed into a sense of ease she had not felt in years.

The second hour began just as relaxed as the first had ended. People began to ask about characters and plot, about what to do and what not to do when looking for a publisher or contract, about what it all meant and what it could mean. She danced around them as she usually did, but was sure to be direct when it came to the logistics of her career. She spared the industry nothing in her words, being as direct as she could in guiding people down a path that was different to her own. God help her if she made a generation of writer’s burnout the same way she did.

And then a question was raised from an all too familiar voice.

“What do you say to the people who follow their dreams and never succeed?”

‘So she is still _very_ bitter,’ (Name) thought as she nodded along to Natsuki’s words.

An awkward silence hung in the air. While most questions were easily avoidable, this one was a little too on the nose for the writer’s liking.

“Success is a relational term,” she began, crossing one leg over the other as she positioned the microphone directly in front of her mouth. “But I believe if you’re following your dreams to become successful then you need to re-evaluate your goal. I believe in following your dreams, I also believe in being realistic with them.

“We live in a generation that’s trying to be something – we’re all trying to make it but really we don’t have to. But if your motivations are purely for personal gain and are only for recognition then I cannot agree with you. I’m not saying you are inherently wrong for wanting success, I just cannot agree with that being your only motivation.

“True success stems from the love of one’s craft. I wrote things because I love it, because I see a need and power in words and a way to shape the world we are in. I signed with Kodansha not to become famous, but to share my words with an audience in hope that inspires something. I published this book not for money or acclaim, but to spread a message that it is okay to not be ‘someone’ or ‘something’. I see a need, I write, all other notions and parameters of success and achievement do not matter because I am not concerned with it. And you should be the same.

“Success is by no means a derivative of happiness – you can soar and achieve and explore and do whatever you want, but if you stay bogged down in the concept of success and how that correlates to your life then it’s counterproductive to your cause and goal. If anything, being focussed on success is not worth your time.

“But if you want to be defined as successful then so be it, who am I to judge a stranger for the choices they make? We all live different lives in different worlds so I cannot really definitively say what is right and wrong.”

(Name) paused for a moment and then chuckled.

“I hope that answered your question, I tend to go off on a tangent when I speak at length. Why else do you think I keep my answers short?”

The room laughed, and from the back corner she spot Honda Natsuki glaring menacingly at her.

No one else asked a question like that for the remaining half an hour.

 

* * *

 

For what it was worth, 2018 TILF was an interesting event.

(Surname) (Name) had been a part of three different panels across the four day long event; two that were Q&A based with other colleagues in the literary field and genre, while the other was her solo seminar.

Her panel had been held at the tail end of the second day while the other two were in the morning of day three. She greeted a few fans in between sessions and seminars, signed a few books and took dozens of photos. It was standard press, even if she had to be pleasant around other writers and creators who had more experience in one arm than she had in her entire body.

While, yes, the experience of talking about her works face to face was enjoyable, (Name) was more thankful to finally be out of the apartment and in the fresh air.

Normally she would have her breaks on the balcony.

But as the weeks passed, (Name) realised that it was no longer a safe place for her. There were too many connotations that were tied to it, topped off with the lingering presence of Limpy across the way.

There was no chance that she could ever return to the solitude she once knew.

As (Name) lay prone on her bed, the vivid image of Honda Natsuki from the festival appeared in her mind.

She hadn’t changed much since their days in high school – not in terms of personality or maturity.

Natsuki was still bitter over the results of their ‘competition’, and the anger she felt was still very much projected towards the writer.

Was it fair? No.

It’s not like (Name) had a say in what companies wanted to do with her work, or what they said about Natsuki’s. And the former had never read one of the younger girl’s pieces so she could neither confirm nor deny a company’s choice of rejection.

Was it understandable?

When she was younger, no it wasn’t. Teenaged (Name) gave no real fucks about what she could and could not understand about the Emerald heir.

But Adult (Name) was wiser, and slightly less of an asshole despite what some had said about her in recent months.

And as her thoughts lingered on Natsuki, the image of the long, chocolate haired woman slowly morphed into one more masculine, a little less familiar and a little more dangerous.

The Ryuujin Nippon setter appeared in her mind, and while she could visually see the physicality of the male, his expression was still very Natsuki.

So very Natsuki.

As if he _was_ Natsuki.

A bolt of electricity shot up through her spine and exited down out of her toes, the sudden jolt of energy forcing her to sit up, wide eyed and disoriented because _fuck_ -

It made sense.

Oikawa Tooru was Honda Natsuki.

And that meant he had his own (Surname) (Name), as well as an insecurity issue that stemmed from something she could not detect from his immediate visage.

And _that_ meant that in a weird moment of recognition, where she felt sorry for Oikawa, she by extension felt sorry for Natsuki.

Where she recognised a part of herself that she hated in Oikawa, she could see that same part of her in Natsuki and hated her because of it.

The panic and fear and ‘please help me’ and distress she first saw on his face late last year finally made sense – and she could finally see it on Natsuki’s own. All the fear and hesitation and uncertainty she had felt sympathy for in Oikawa was reflected loud and clear on the expression Natsuki wore today.

Because, either way, they were all assholes whether they liked it or not – and from the looks of things no one really liked it.

_Oh God, I really am an asshole._

Honesty is the first step to stop being an ass.

Transparency is the second step to stop being an ass.

Trust is the third step to stop being an ass.

Acceptance is the fourth step to stop being an ass.

Her fingers itched.

She needed to write.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's not a Reader-insert if there isn't a Rival!!  
> I'm just kidding; Natsuki is only there for character development and parallels and other literary mumbo-jumbo that I think I'm shoving down your throat at this point.  
> And yes, no Oikawa or Bokuto in this chapter. We gotta let our girl have a moment to breathe... And I know I love writing Fakekawa, but I need a break from him too.
> 
> (take a shot every time i used a variation of the word 'success' in this chapter. if it weren't for the character development, i'd porbably have called the chapter 'success', ngl)
> 
> I hope you all have a very Happy New Year! I can't wait to take this story into 2018 with you all and I sincerely hope it treats you well!  
> Now if you excuse me, I'm gonna go back to drinking XD


	12. Memories

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Love wasn’t on his Game Plan™.
> 
> Was it shitty of him to see confessions that way? Maybe.
> 
> Was it shitty to confess to someone you didn’t fully appreciate? Also maybe.
> 
> //
> 
> “You hug your editor but not your friend, (Name) you’re so mean~”
> 
> “No one will find your body.”

_ March, 2018 _

The last time Oikawa graduated, it was a grand affair.

Not that he minded, of course.

The grandeur of the event had been an appropriate send off to the beloved athlete.

That year was no different.

Perhaps the only difference that he could discern was that _everyone_ considered graduation to be The Day for outlandish gestures.

That’s how the culture developed while he was in university; slowly more and more people were treating graduation as their 15 Minutes of Fame, dressing up and glorifying themselves as a means of book-ending their extra four years in education. Each generation of graduates would try to best the year before them, with more glitz and glam and decadence that only made their juniors look on with envy and newfound motivation.

And that’s exactly what happened for his year.

Their upperclassmen from the Class of 2017 had been much more relaxed, especially those who were on the volleyball team. And so the natural competitiveness kicked in all too quickly. The setter was cornered two weeks prior to the event by the rest of the graduates on the Men’s Volleyball Team and was quickly reminded of the plan they had agreed to exactly one year before.

“Suit up.”

That same afternoon, he had been held hostage by Kuroo and Bokuto in the grand attempt to find the perfect suit. Four stores and many attempts to dissuade the latter in purchasing a plaid three piece later, the trio  had successful reached their goal and were prepared for the oncoming occasion.

They were not prepared for the sudden heatwave in the city.

And so they stood there, the graduating members of the Chuo Team, all suffering varying stages of fatigue and heat stroke while they waited in the courtyard to be let into the venue. Most of the cohort had already donned their robes and caps – the team had agreed to only throw them on once they were let inside lest they wanted to lose the last of their dignity and succumb to looking like drowned rats covered in a thick sheen of sweat.

Oikawa fanned himself with a pamphlet, the ones they were handing out for the guests who were already being seated inside. With his free hand, he pushed back his hair and angled the fan to send air down his shirt with the other. His knee throbbed in the heat, pushing against the black knee brace that lay under the fabric of his pants.

Kuroo pushed up his jacket and shirt sleeves, folding them once over before forcefully dragging them up the length of his forearm. Oikawa pivoted his hand so the small gusts of air wafted across the blocker’s mouth and neck. The former sighed at the breeze, slightly regretting the choice to wear black on black rather than the various shades of grey and navy his teammates had chosen. Granted, there had been a last minute change in the schedule which meant the ceremony had to be pushed back into the afternoon, and the heatwave had only started that morning – but still, regret took no hostages and left no survivors.

“Did you guys hear the news?” The group turned in unison towards the male that neared them – Kojima – as he entered the shade cast over them by the nearby building. “Ishida and Takeuchi are engaged. Ishida proposed this morning before registration.”

The team paused for a moment before Kojima continued to tell the story. The couple in question had been dating for most of their university life and, unsurprisingly, became a campus couple. There had been rumours of their engagement since 2015 when the Shibuya ward offered same-sex marriage licenses but Kojima explained that they were false. Apparently Ishida decided to go for it after Sapporo began offering partnership certificates the year before.

“Why graduation though?” Ex-libero Ueda asked, “He could have done it any other time of the year – like cherry blossom season starts in a week.”

“Oya, are you giving away your plans for proposing to Mika-chan?” Kuroo teased, though the mirth was lost when a hot gust of air went straight through him.

Kojima shrugged, “Everyone confesses on graduation don’t they? Like – that’s the goal for a lot of people.”

“I bet Oikawa-sama was the type who had girls confessing to him every day, let alone on graduation.” Someone else chimed in teasingly, throwing the attention the attractive setter.

“People probably fought for his buttons.”

“Aoba Johsai has a blazer-style uniform, don’t they?”

“Everyone gets sentimental in high school, who cares if you’re wearing a gakuran or not.”

“Now, now, don’t get jealous because you can’t get people to like you, Ueda-chan.” Oikawa smirked, waving away the annoyed expression on the blond libero’s face with his fake fan.

They hadn’t been wrong, of course – with a face like his it would have been strange to _not_ receive a confession every now and then – but his graduation had been levels of attention that took the event the step further.

The only school in the prefecture that Oikawa knew still wore the gakuran was Karasuno, but that didn’t stop people from doing the button confession as if life were some Shoujou manga. He had succumb to the trope numerous times – having received his fair share of buttons and having to give up every button on his blazer during his own graduation ceremony.

Oikawa couldn’t recall who he gave his buttons to, nor was he certain if they had _stayed_ with the original recipients – but he didn’t care much.

Most people tended to forget about those types of things, and the only people who asked him for one where girls who only saw him as a pretty face, not a person. He never took it to heart, he didn’t have to. Love wasn’t on his Game Plan™.

Was it shitty of him to see confessions that way? Maybe.

Was it shitty to confess to someone you didn’t fully appreciate? Also maybe.

So really the two cancelled out and his actions were neutral rather than negative.

Before anyone could begin the conversation once more, one of the organisers began yelling out instructions, getting people to line up inside and reminding them to put their robes on.

The Chuo Team stretched out their sore limbs, all collectively glad to be getting out of the heat before Kuroo glanced around and-

“Has anyone seen Bokuto?”

Oikawa blinked. ‘No wonder it had been suspiciously quiet.’

The group glanced around, each examining a different direction before someone spoke up. “Over there – hey Bokuto!”

The wing spiker looked around before noticing the huddle and immediately making his way over to them. Kuroo frowned and straightened out his back.

“Bo, where did you go? You left the apartment before I did!”

“Sorry, sorry, I got held up – I made it on time didn’t I?”

Oikawa narrowed his eyes and examined the spiker, taking in his flushed cheeks and the way his tie was still loosened at the knot. Kuroo and Bokuto didn’t live too far away from the station in Mejirodai, and that specific train line tended to be quiet in the afternoons.

_What was he up to?_

The setter opened his mouth to interrogate the spiker but was interrupted by the pressing demands of the organiser who sought to usher the team inside as quickly as they could, muttering something about a tight schedule and the need to be quick.

Her frowned.

He’d figure it out after the ceremony.

 

* * *

 

An hour after the ceremony he found himself in the First Gym; the same place he had spent a large portion of university life.

While he was mulling over the mystery that was Bokuto Koutarou, Oikawa realised that he had never said ‘goodbye’ to university volleyball. Sure there was the distancing he did to himself in the initial stages of his injury, but the setter never really said farewell to the home he had made himself over the past four years.

His eyes swept up and down the gym, lingering on specific spots that stuck out in his mind. Each memory hit him as he continued to survey the room, and though his knee throbbed from the heat and exertion of effort, he made a point to take one last victory lap around the court, taking in every moment he took for granted during his time at Chuo.

Oikawa scoffed at himself; acting as if he weren’t ever playing volleyball again. But withdrawal did things to you, made you stupid – made you weak.

“Oikawa-san.”

The brunet froze and turned on his heel, facing the person who intruded on his personal moment. Standing before him was a woman in her early twenties, black hair styled into a bob and sleepy eyes staring at him fondly.

He recognised her – by face rather than name – as one of his old classmates from Aoba Johsai. He hadn’t realised that people from the alma mater besides himself, Iwa-chan, Makki and Mattsun had left the prefecture.

Fuck, what was her name again?

“I’m Nagato Aiko, we were in the same class in high school.”

Oikawa paused for a moment before nodding – Second Year, Class Six. Nagato had requested to move down to Class Five at the beginning of their final year.

“Ah, yes, Nagato-san. It’s nice to see you again. How have you been? I didn’t know you went to Chuo.”

That was a forced statement, but the grin on the woman’s face proved that she didn’t care much for it.

“I don’t – I go to Waseda. My friend goes here and I saw you in the ceremony and I, well, I just thought I should say hello and all.”

Oikawa nodded thoughtfully; Waseda was a private university – to be accepted while studying in Class Five was almost impossible. Even he was accepted in Chuo on a recommendation – if it were his academics alone he may not have gotten in. He was almost impressed.

“I’m glad you’re well Nagato-san~ It’s always nice to hear from others from Seijoh; I only really talk to Iwa-chan and Makki and Mattsun.” He hummed, pouting ever so slightly.

“You’d think a guy as popular as you would stay in touch with everyone. I guess it was foolish to think though, that even though we talked a lot we would stay in touch.”

_Did they?_

He rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly, placing his free hand in the pocket of his pants. “Sorry, I don’t really remember. High school was such a long time ago~”

Nagato waved her hand. “I never expected you to remember, really. It sounds like you’re still a very popular guy.”  She coughed slightly, clearing her throat as if-

Oh, he knew that look.

“I just want to say congratulations on graduating... And that-”

“I’m sorry,” he began, turning to face the girl head on, “but I’ve got too much on plate and not enough time for a relationship.”

The woman’s weak smile dropped slightly.

“I appreciate your feelings, but I cannot accept them so openly. It would be unfair to you to be in a relationship with a guy who’s too focused on his career rather than you... No one wants that, no one deserves that.”

There was silence in the gymnasium, save for the sound of Oikawa’s heartbeat thumping in his ears. He kept his eyes trained on the woman in front of him, who had redirected her gaze so she was no longer looking at him.

There was a sniff.

“It was worth a shot, wasn’t it?”

_Oh god – I can’t believe I was actually right about this._

“I’m not worth the tears, Nagato-san.” He told her, stepping closer. “Really, you’ll find a better guy than me.”

 _Everyone does_.

She nodded and heaved a sigh, murmuring something Oikawa could only guess was a “Maybe”.

There was more silence before Nagato worked up the courage to look the man in the eye. They were hardened, not as glassy as he had presumed they would be.

“Congratulations again Oikawa-san.” She spoke clearly, firmly, and did not wait for his response before she left through the second entry to the gymnasium.

“You really are a shitty guy.”

Oikawa relaxed his shoulders at the voice of the intruder. “Is it really being shitty if it’s the truth, Iwa-chan?”

The setter heard his friend click his tongue angrily before he entered, shoes squeaking on the polished floorboards.

They hadn’t really spoken seriously since Christmas, and Oikawa intended to keep it that way. The less Iwa-chan knew the better; the ace was the only person who could withstand his bullshit and make him talk if he tried hard enough.

“What’s the occasion?”

“You’ve been ignoring me.”  

He had. He wasn’t going to tell Iwaizumi that flat out.

Besides, Christmas had been a close enough call – and if Iwaizumi were to probe any further, Oikawa wasn’t sure if he was going to survive the interrogation.

“You’re a strong guy, Oikawa.”

He clicked his tongue at the comment. “You always say that, but you sound like you don’t mean it.”

“I say it because for some reason you need a reminder of it every day – do I need to tattoo it on to your face?” Iwaizumi growled. “If you don’t want me to say it then maybe you should finally get it through your thick head.”

The setter folded his arms, staring his childhood friend right in the eye.

Tokyo had made Iwaizumi more hard-headed, it seemed. He took less of Oikawa’s shit, wanted more direction and answers that volleyball and their friendship never really seemed to give him. But as a result, Oikawa couldn’t help but be wary around him – watching every word he said lest he want to incriminate himself.

They had come so far in life, being able to read each other like open books. But now it was harder to read Iwa-chan, and in turn Iwa-chan struggled to read the blurred lines of Oikawa Tooru.

They held each other’s gazes a little longer, waiting for the other to crack.

“You know you can’t avoid me forever Oi-”

“Oi, Oikawa,” Kojima stuck his head through the doors to the gym, unbothered by the obvious tension in the room, “we’re heading Takeo’s place before we head to the hotel. You coming?”

‘Fuck,’ thought Oikawa, ‘I am going to buy Kojima a drink tonight.’

“Yup~ I can’t go to the party looking like _this_.” Oikawa laughed, directing his attention to the male. Kojima nodded and looked him up and down.

“Yeah you look like trash, I mean you normally do but it’s even more noticeable today.”

Oikawa whined as he began to pass by Iwaizumi, who instinctively grabbed at the taller male’s forearm. He squeezed it once before letting him pass, a nonverbal promise that he would talk to him again. Oikawa chose not to answer.

The setter retreated alongside his ex-teammate, the latter of whom actively expressed his excitement for the rest of the evening.

Iwaizumi was left alone in the gym, his gaze trained on his childhood friend. Every third step was punctuated with a slight limp from his right leg.

He hadn’t noticed how tightly he clenched his fists.

 

* * *

 

The last time (Surname) graduated, it was an underwhelming affair.

Not that she minded, of course.

The stereotypical theatrics of a graduation were more for her batch mates, not her.

And so when graduation came around for her at the end of March she anticipated a similar outcome.

But she was wrong, as she seemed to be these days.

There was a substantial difference between a high school graduation of school of a few hundred and a university that spanned four campuses and had about 6,000 graduates in its 2018 class.

That, on top of the acclaim she had garnered during her final two years of study, meant that this event would be anything but underwhelming.

Graduation for Tokyo University was always held at the main campus, and the event itself was more so for photo taking and commemoration that the acknowledgment of academic achievement.

(Name) arrived at on campus for registration half an hour after it opened, and even though she was early there were still hordes of students she did and did not recognised lining up around the courtyards to take the best photos of the day.

The attire differed from person to person – from traditional kimono to long gowns, suits and ties and even a few pyjamas.

(Name) had opted for business casual; no one would see what she was wearing under the robes anyway. And dressing up for the occasion was only really necessary when you had friends or family coming to visit.

“Yo, (Name).”

The woman didn’t spare a glance at the male who called out it her. “Mattsun, no other half today?”

“Busy working, you of all people should know that.”

The middle blocker stood to her left, watching their rest of their cohort swarm the registration booths and take photos of each other around the courtyard. From what she could see, Mattsun had chosen to dress as casually as possible. (Name) was sure he was wearing Hanamaki’s jeans.

“He doesn’t have to go in today,” she retorted, “Hisakawa can set up the interview if he wants me to do it that badly.”

“I think he was just worried you'd embarrass us if he showed up.” Mattsun supplied.

If (Name) was perfectly honest, she would have.

“Congratulations on graduating, in any case I’m surprised you didn’t drop out.”

Mattsun wiped a fake tear from his eye, “All thanks to that tutor from third year, bless her blackened heart.”

The writer shoulder barged her friend, the action did nothing to his burly form.

“Let’s hug it out-”

“Go die.”

Mattsun threw an arm over her shoulder and crushed her into his side, knocking the wind out of her lungs the way she wanted to do to him mere seconds before. “You hug your editor but not your friend, (Name) you’re so mean~”

“No one will find your body.”

“But look at you, not even pulling away and actually standing still! The Stop Being an Ass thing might actually be working!”

“It will be a slow and painful death, I promise.”

“We should get the official photographer for the event to take a commemorative photo of us – I’ll put it on a shirt and we can get matching ones.”

“The fish from the Tokyo Bay will thank you for the meal.”

Mattsun squeezed her shoulder. “C’mon, let’s get our seats yeah? You can plot my murder where there are multiple witnesses and a few dozen cameras.”

 

* * *

 

Mattsun disappeared almost immediately after the ceremony was finished, briefly mentioning something about pants and dinner and an IOU before he vanished from her sight. And while most other days she would have remained alone, she was approached by two different reporters and their respective crews who were covering the event.

Both were very interested in her career now that she was free from full-time tertiary commitments. (Name) elected not to provide a definitive comment, but recommended they talk to her editor at Kodansha if they wanted a full interview.

(“It’s easier that way,” she said, “and it always turns out better for the reporter if they can get a proper interview with me.”)

They complied, but not before asking for a few posed photos, and left not too long after the encounter. It was just barely midday, but the writer knew those photos would be published online in a mere two or three hours. Word travelled quickly.

She wanted to get home.

As she weaved through the crowds still taking photos on campus, her eyes spotted the scattered visages of couples embracing in the hot air. She always found it funny that the universe timed the concept of the confession with the beauty of spring as well as the day of graduation.

But it was as natural as breathing, and even she was one who complied with the trope.

\--

_“(Surname)-senpai! Can I have one of your buttons?”_

_The graduate blinked once in thought, but nodded nonetheless. It was a strange request, because as far as she was concerned only guys did that kind of thing, and only when wearing a gakuran._

_Her kouhai grinned and stared at her with wide eyes as she worked off one of the buttons on her blazer._

_The second one._

_Because that’s what his request implied._

_And then suddenly she was swarmed by a series of first and second year students, all requesting one of the buttons from her blazer._

_She only had six in total; two on the front and two in each sleeve._

_In the distance, (Name) heard Makoto laughing at the sight – the silent upperclassman surrounded by a good forty underclassman all asking for something remedial as embellishments from a uniform. It must have been a sight to behold; that’s what Makoto had told her after she had cleared the group away._

_“The look on your face,” Makoto snorted as the shorter girl fixed her skirt, “was absolutely priceless (Name)-chan, I swear! I’m surprised you didn’t tell them to go away.”_

_Unlike her friend, (Name) saw value in the act. Yes it wasn’t a standard confession and yes, buttons of all things were a rather stupid item to give away – but everything was stupid if you took the meaning away._

_She remembered each person she had given a button to, had made a mental note in her mind because despite what the other students may have thought, the choices were more conscious than they were polite. Everything had meaning, nothing was truly meaningless._

_The first button that she gave away went to Minato Ryuu; the first year who inquired about the buttons in the first place. They had only talked for mere minutes at a time throughout their one year together as students, but the boy had left an impression on her. Confident, well-liked and athletic, it was surprising that he had ever made the attempt to approach the older girl in the first place. She was, to most people, hard to talk to once, let alone as frequently as he tried to be. It was a fitting reward for his efforts, especially from his request._

_The left sleeve buttons went to a first year and second year, Fukunaga Akira and Mogami Kiyoko respectively. Both girls were her juniors in the Writing Club which she unfortunately had become the president of in her final year. There support had always been unwavering, something that unsettled the writer more than she cared to admit, but their gestures were always appreciated. No matter how often she tried to remain prickly, the two junior students made sure to show her that they were just as unbothered as Makoto was at her attempts of impolite behaviour. Mogami would become the president the following year, Fukunaga her right hand – they needed to know their senpai was proud of them._

_The right went to two second years – twins that (Name) only knew by their first names, Izumi and Mei.  As far as she was aware, the twins had been the first people besides Makoto to know about the Gunzo Prize. She was awarded it in her own second year, and the school found out a month later when she officially changed her legal name. The twins had approached her sometime during the month leading up to it, put two and two together, and congratulated her fondly and promised to keep the secret. She hadn’t asked them to, but they kept their word. In passing they would wink in scary unison at the older girl, their hushed tones always talking about another story she had published. The secrecy was nice while it lasted, and she sought to thank them properly._

_The final button – the well sought after second button down – was one she gave away quietly, discretely, as if she had given it away well before the crowd formed around her. Of all the choices, that one was a no brainer and she had ridded herself of the button just as quickly as she decided it. There were no regrets, only content in her final choice._

 --

“(Surname)-senpai.”

The writer froze at the sound of the voice, immediately being woken up from her reverie.

She hadn’t heard from him in years. She slowly turned and-

“Ah, Samuel-kun. How have you been? You’ve grown.”

Grown was an understatement; Samuel had _matured_.

Like her, Saito Samuel was a mixed child – one of the quiet kinds who kept to himself and only involved himself when he deemed necessary. The genetic lottery could only do so much, and from what she remembered in high school, the boy had features that he could only grow in to.

Puberty did him well.

He wasn’t the same spindly second year she remembered. Samuel had grown much taller, though he was still lean, the size and shape of his body was well proportioned. His thick black hair sat across his forehead, messy and unkempt in ways that she could see finally suited him. His skin had maintained his dark shade, maybe even deepening from years in the sunlight. He grinned at her, head angled down slightly from their subtle height difference.

Quiet Saito Samuel finally looked comfortable in his own skin.

“I didn’t think you wanted to study here in Tokyo.” (Name) admitted. “I thought you would have stayed in Osaka; the political science course here isn’t that great.”

He shook his head.

“There were too many memories, but not enough good ones.” He answered. He glanced around and rubbed the back of his neck. “I actually wanted to go here because I heard you were here...”

“Ah...”

“I-It’s not because of what you think! I just-” Samuel dropped his hands and let his shoulders sink. “I wanted to thank you, I guess.”

The writer tilted her head. “You can’t say things like that, Samuel-kun – it’ll make my ego inflate and we can’t have that.” She joked, waving his comment off. Samuel’s fists tightened slightly.

“I mean it though! You were a really good senpai back in high school, a-and even now you did so much for me without realising.”

(Name) stared at him curiously.

_That sounds fake but yeah, okay._

“You ran a three day workshop on Literature 103 last year. The one endorsed by the Student Council?”

She had. She remembered that conversation (read: coercion) very well. For someone who hated poetry, she did a very good job at analysing it. So, the Todai Student Council had asked her to run a workshop on the course in question before the Semester 1 Final Exams.

She did, albeit somewhat reluctantly, and from what she had heard people didn’t perform as poorly as the faculty had anticipated.

And that was always a good thing.

“I attended that and, really, you made the work easy to understand. I got a High Distinction in that examination.” He scratched his neck again. “And in my first year, you used to write in the Todai Newspaper once a month – t-that short story section – like the way you used to do in the Gunzo. And you always had a paragraph at the end about your tip of the week.”

She remembered that too – another conversation (again: coercion) that lead her to an extra year of writing. Admittedly, the exposure was enough to help keep her in check while Hisakawa and his Band of Assholes (read: her ex-editors) tried to mould her into a writer she was not. As far as she was concerned, no one actually read the paper unless they were _a part_ of the process.

“And then when you changed your name from Kobayashi to (Surname) in the middle of the school year I thought that was so cool because-” he stopped for a moment, quickly gathering his thoughts “- because you _liked_ that part of you.”

She exhaled deeply through her nose.

Saito Samuel had problems with being a mixed child – from their conversations in the past all (Name) could ascertain was that he had been bullied for his darker skin and his curly hair. She had paid no mind to the judgement their seniors had given her for it, instead she sought to make sure he knew that they were in it together – to give him the support she wished she had from _other_ people in her life.

“There’s still so much I need to tell you but a lot of its not important...” He patted himself down, looking for something as he continued to speak, and when he found it he couldn’t help but pause.

“I know you’re the one graduating and that we’re in university and not high school but-”

Samuel took one of (Name)’s hands and dropped the item into her palm. As his retraced, the writer smiled softly.

Two buttons.

One she recognised as the second button from her high school uniform.

The other-

The writer’s eyes fell upon the underclassman’s chest.

There, where the second button of his polo should have been was a fraying strand of grey thread.

“Congratulations on your graduation, (Surname)-senpai... And thank you for everything.”

Instinctively, (Name) clenched the buttons into her fist, her other hand going to grab both of Samuel’s.

“Don’t go being a stranger even though I’ve graduated.” She demanded, squeezing his fingers tightly in her own. “I want to hear about my dear kouhai’s life a little more often.”

Samuel grinned. “With your life, (Surname)-senpai? How am I gonna find that time?”

She removed her hands from his, the younger male quickly pushing his now sweaty hands into his jeans. She waved him off. “Go on then, leave me to be old and lonely.” He laughed good naturedly.

The writer watched him retreat over to a group to her left; she could only assume that they were his friends. Samuel waved over his shoulder right before he reached the group, turning around fully the moment he knew she saw him.

He didn’t see her wave back.

“(Name)!”

Her heart jumped from the sudden yell, unprepared for the presence that seemed way too close for comfort. The woman put the buttons in her pocket as she turned, getting ready to address the whirlwind that was-

“Bokuto?”

“Congratulations on your graduation!”

There were a lot of things (Name) thought she would never see.

Bokuto Koutarou wearing a suit was not on that list.

Nor was it actually a thing she considered to be a possibility.

But there he was, dressed to the nines in a dark gunmetal grey two piece with his hair slicked at the ends and pushed back off his forehead. The metallic gold skinny tie that he wore over the charcoal button down was loosened at the knot, and the way his jacket squared off at the shoulders made the spiker look as broad as Matsukawa.

It was a stark contrast to the last time they had seen each other, where the male had left her apartment after spending the night, donning a pair of owl-print pyjamas and his Chuo tracksuit jacket.

March had marked the beginning of intense preparation for Ryuujin Nippon now that most of its starting line up were free from the demands of university life. In turn, it meant that the pair weren’t able to see each other often.

Somewhere along the way they had exchanged numbers – (Name) wasn’t too sure how he coaxed her into that arrangement – and so in his physical absence, his textual presence took precedence.

Nothing could have prepared (Name) for Bokuto’s sudden re-emergence into her life.

Especially dressed like this.

He had his right hand extended out to her, and in it was a bouquet of (flowers) wrapped at the stems in white and blue plastic; the colours of her now tertiary alma mater.

From the corners of her eyes she caught sight of people staring at them, hushed whispers reverberating in the air.

She took a step closer. He followed suit.

“I never told you where I went to school.” She hummed almost quizzically, and the man shrugged, continuing to close the distance.

“I did _a lot_ of research to find out.” He announced proudly. She snorted.

“You? Research?”

“(Name)~”

They stood less than a metre a part, a strange sense of intimacy that seemed to go unspoken through the duration of their short friendship. Bokuto liked intimacy; (Name) was never one to judge.

Her left hand closed around the bound stems and brought the bouquet into her chest, fingers grazing each other at the action.

“These are my favourites.” She mused.

His eyes widened for a moment before he returned to his air of eased confidence.

“Like I said, I did _a lot_ of research.”

(Name) fell silent as her gaze lingered on the flowers, their sweet scent wafting into her nose.

Bokuto grinned down at her, waiting for her to keep talking.

“What’s the occasion?”

“You graduated.”

“And the suit?”

“ _I’m_ graduating.”

(Name)’s head shot up, chest filled with guilt. She hadn’t even considered that. A calendar appeared in her mind as she verified that yes, the Chuo University graduation _was_ on the same day as her own.

“Congratulations on your graduation.” She said softly, and Bokuto craned his head to hear the words better. As they rumbled in his eardrums, he couldn’t help but smile.

“Are you gonna pull some flowers out of your sleeve (Name)-chan? Or maybe chocolate? I’m not that picky, y’know, I’d be happy with an IOU.”

The woman narrowed her eyes at him. _What a fucking tease._

“There’s a good ramen house in Shinjuku I know; dinner’s on me tonight.”

Bokuto’s shoulders slumped as the words left her lips, his hair – though slicked back – deflated with his mood.

“Tonight?”

“Not free?”

“The Chuo Grad Party is tonight – me and the boys were really hyped to go out and just relax. Even Coach Nagakaichi gave us the all clear.”

She waved her hand. “Then go.”

“But free food-”

“I’m free tomorrow if you’re not too hung-over,” she offered, “you deserve a day to yourself for once, show off your suit and all.”

Bokuto pouted.

“I’ll even bring flowers.”

“Sui and tie?”

“You’re pushing it.”

He grinned in response, hair lifting slightly as his chest rumbled with laughter.

“C’mon you owe me – I took a detour on my way to Hachioji dressed in a suit and tie and there you are not matching how hot I am right now when we could be hot together.” Bokuto put a hand on his hip, leaning slightly in an uneven stance.

She clicked her tongue in annoyance and he laughed at her reluctance.

There was half a beat of nothing, and then he nodded in confirmation, the corners of his eyes crinkling with delight.

“Tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow.” She confirmed with a small smile.

Bokuto took a few steps back from her, shoving his hands into the pockets of his jacket, still grinning madly at her. “Now I’ve really gotta run, our ceremony starts in like half an hour.”

She blinked. “Bokuto it takes half an hour to get to Hachioji from this campus.”

He shrugged. “Eh, worth it.”

He continued to move away, still facing her, his steps large and confident despite the fact he was walking backwards and would run into something knowing his luck. He waved with a wink, the writer still looking at him with disbelief in her eyes.

And then he was gone as quickly as he came, saving the last ounce of his dignity as he avoided falling down the courtyard stairs.

When she was finally alone, the writer took a moment to inspect the spiker’s gift.

A moment passed before she frowned.

_Who the fuck told him her favourite flowers?_

 

* * *

 

Oikawa left the party well before the others that night. He had called a cab and remained unbothered about the expensive fair due to the distance between the city centre and his apartment. His knee hurt more than the thought of an empty bank account.

It was a little past midnight when he entered his apartment, and though he sobered up slightly from the drive over, he felt compelled to sit and take in the skyline.

He loosened his black tie and pulled it up over his neck and head, discarding it alongside the jacket and dropping both on to his couch as he passed. The smell of smoke and alcohol lingered in the fabric, he’d have to get it dry cleaned to get the smell out.

The setter rolled up his sleeves as he opened the glass door, and for a moment he was distracted by the view of the world before him.

If only for a moment.

When the moment passed, he realised he wasn’t alone on the balcony.

Writer-chan sat in her usual place, a beer can in hand, as she remained settled on staring out into the distance. Next to her on a small table was a bouquet of flowers in a vase, arranged in a way that was attractive to the eye. It washed away the smell of alcohol.

He hadn’t seen her since the argument earlier that year – and for the past few months she had remained absent from the balcony. Oikawa had thought he had officially staked his claim; apparently not.

He wasn’t going to retreat now.

Oikawa sat down in his usual seat, sighing contently as he finally took a load off.

“Congratulations on your graduation.”  

The words left her lips faster than Oikawa could register, and he turned to look at her confusedly.

“You’re being civil?”

“Politeness is a trait of Japanese culture.” She deadpanned, not bothering to look at him and give him the satisfaction he desired.

“How’d you know?”

“Hanamaki.”

He narrowed his eyes, unable to tell if it was a lie or not.

“Who are the flowers from? A friend?”

The bite to his words was completely unconscious, and any attempt and civility had been thrown out the window. He watched her tense, grip tightening around the can she held in her dominant hand.

“Eh, more than what you could have gotten, Limpy.”

He forced down a growl that got caught in his through.

_How the fuck did she-_

Mattsun’s voice cut through his thoughts, followed by the usual scheming voice of Kuroo.

_She’s not Ushijima... Not Kageyama..._

_Do what you do best._

His mind flip-flopped between the two voices, caught in the middle of a push and pull he had no control over.

It was torture; on the one hand Oikawa wanted to be himself and do what he knew he could do, but on the other hand he didn’t want to lose people her cared about. His selfishness ran in both directions, and never before had he been caught in a predicament like this.

Perhaps the question that needed to be answered was who he cared more about; himself, or his friends?

The setter hunched over, leaning his bare elbows on the bend of his knees, fabric of the dress pants scraping the skin raw as he mentally prepared himself for the next few seconds.

“I’m so-”

“Do you think Hanamaki and Mattsun will ever become official?”

Oikawa paused and looked at her, eyes wide in confusion because _where did that come from_?

“What?”

She took a sip from the can, swallowing the liquid in order to keep speaking. “I mean, they’ve been together for like seven years or something right? Like they’ve been at this since high school – they need to put a label on whatever they are or I’m doing to for them.”

The setter stayed silent, unable to talk for a while. ‘She’s drunk,’ he thought, ‘there is no way that this is happening right now.’

“Were they always this annoying?” She looked at him from the corner of her eye, stone-faced, before looking back out to the view. “I’ve only known them for two years so I don’t know – but if they have been then someone needs to smack them both with something, I swear.”

The brunet blinked once, then twice and then nodded. “Yeah they have...” He paused. “Look Writer-chan I-”

“I bet they’ll get married in secret and come back like ‘Surprise it’s official we skipped all the bullshit and went straight to lifelong commitment’.” She crushed the can in her hand and bend down out of view, the sound of aluminium scraping against plastic punctuated her sentence. “Which is bullshit cause I want to be a part of that shit too, y’know?”

The growl returned and got caught in his throat. _Let me apologise, damn it._

“(Surname)-san-”

“Don’t you think it’s unfair? It’s more unfair you to though, right, since you’ve dealt with their hopelessness for longer. Man, it must have been rough.”

She stood up, hauling a small plastic bag up into the air as she tied the ends together.

_She is not fucking leaving now-_

“I’m sorry!”

Oikawa announced quickly, cutting off the next sentence that threatened to escape her lips.

(Name) turned to him slowly, tilting her head as her gaze landed on him. There was a beat of silence before-

“Have a good night, Limpy, don’t let the aliens bite.”

She lifted the bag over her shoulder and hauled it inside, shutting the door and drawing the curtains behind her. The flowers remained on the table.

Oikawa blinked.

Did she just... Ignore his apology?

He shook his head, sobering up more from her actions than the night time air.

No, she didn’t ignore him. She skipped the formality entirely.

He poked his tongue into his cheek, glaring angrily at the door she disappeared in to.

“Since when the fuck was _that_ an option?”

 

* * *

 

Bokuto awoke the next morning in his apartment, no recollection of the night before and only a pounding headache and the lingering aftertaste of tequila and vodka on his tongue.

He was in his bedroom from what he could tell; the suit he once wore shed like old skin and lay on the floor – a sign of a good (maybe bad) night.

There was a knock on his door, pounding in unison with his splitting headache.

Somehow he stumbled through the apartment, not bothering to care if he woke Kuroo up or not. As he passed the laundry, he threw on the first shirt he could grab – from the slim fit it was definitely Kuroo’s – before he could open the door.

He was met face to face with a man in a khaki suit, hat pulled over his head.

“Delivery for Mr Bokuto Koutarou.”

The male scratched his head, “S’me.”

The delivery guy looked him up and down before nodding and pushing a clipboard into his hands. Bokuto moved on instinct and blindly signed the paper. Immediately, the board was removed and replaced with a box decorated with a large bow around its middle.

With a nod in farewell the man was gone, leaving Bokuto tired and confused as to what the fuck he had just been given.

He shut the door behind him with his foot, stumbling while he balanced the box in both hands as he made his way into the lounge. He dropped down onto the couch, letting the box rest on the coffee table in front of him.

With one hand he wiped the sleep from his eyes while the other began spinning the box as a means of examining it. The ribbon appeared to keep the walls up, and the lid was another measure of that security.

His right hand pulled the bow apart while his left tore off the lid without much concern. As the white walls of the cardboard box fell down, he felt himself sober up all too quickly. Bokuto’s eyes widened in disbelief because _no this didn’t fucking happen_.

A small box containing flowers now sat on his coffee table, arranged delicately so that the piece drew all the attention to the centre piece of the bouquet.

Red Carnations.

He really liked carnations.

There was a card attached to the smaller box, and Bokuto tore it away from the tape in order to inspect it.

It was a similar shade of red to the flowers, and in neat script read a simple line of text.

**_‘Flashy flowers for a flashy guy’_ **

He turned the card over. On the opposite side was an address in Shinjuku and a set of initials he immediately recognised.

For a moment he grinned, but the glee faded and the spiker glanced around in what could only be described as confusion.

_How the fuck did she know where he lived?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh hey guys, here's the equivalent of New Year New Me for this story because Oikawa actually apologised (even if he didn't mean it) and Reader forgave him (even if she didn't mean it).  
> Look, civility is better than hostility, give them time!
> 
> And I'm genuinely surprised at how quickly people jumped into being a part of the Bokuto Koutarou Protection Squad because same like for real did you //see// him this chapter I can't-
> 
> I've had a lot of the content up to Chapter 20 mostly written so that means more updates before I hit a slump; that's always a good thing!  
> The updates, not the slump thing.
> 
> Comments keep my will to live high my loves, they also make me laugh to myself because man, y'all are great.
> 
> And a word of warning for next chapter; be prepared.


	13. Disturbances

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There was something about Bokuto Koutarou that was too good to be true. 
> 
> She pondered for a moment.
> 
> Maybe it was life in general that was too good to be true.
> 
> //
> 
> There comes a point in everyone's lives that forces them to test the limits of how good of a person they were.
> 
> Oikawa Tooru was not a good man.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: this chapter will involve drama concerning family dynamics, insecurity, and death which people may find uncomfortable if they are familiar with it. I know this came out of nowhere but life does that, and art imitate life. It gets intense down there so please be wary when reading. The tags have been updated accordingly. Don't read endnote until after you've read the chapter if you don't want spoilers.

_ April, 2018 _

 

“You just can’t leave me alone, can you Iwa-chan?”

“Like I said – you can’t avoid me forever.”

The more often they encountered each other, the more Oikawa was certain that Iwaizumi was not the same person from their high school days.

It had been a week since their separate graduations – and while Oikawa discovered Iwaizumi attended his, he did not have the courage to return the favour. Attending meant talking, and with the change in tempo between them he wasn’t sure if he could make it through that.

But lo and behold, he had been cornered yet again by the spiker, who stared him down with the infamous Game Face that brought fear to their opponents. The setter had ducked out of his apartment for food, and since he wasn’t bothered to travel to the nearest grocer, he decided the konbini down the road was the most viable. His decision was misguided, maybe a bit predictable it seemed. It confused him greatly; it was very late in the afternoon and most university graduates would have started their newly acquired jobs the following week.

“Aren’t you meant to be at work?” Oikawa asked as he turned away, continuing to examine the various baked goods displayed on the shelf in front of him. If he was honest, he wasn’t sure if his childhood friend even had a job – avoiding him had meant that there was little to no information that reached him.

Iwaizumi shrugged. “I don’t start till next month. The reporter I’m interning with doesn’t return till then.”

“You got offered a spot at J-Sports?”

The other nodded. “If I get enough experience in the next few months, they’ll put me on to covering the V League when it starts up.”

Oikawa stopped himself from frowned. The rumours that went around the Tokyo volleyball circuit claimed that only two graduating players from Tsukuba U were picked for teams. Ushijima had a confirmed position in the starting line up for the Suntory Sunbirds in the upcoming 2018-19 season. Oikawa was certain that Iwa-chan had been the second player.

“You didn’t get an offer?”

“I did.”

“You declined?”

“I said I’d think about it.” He answered dismissively. “Is it wrong if I want to see if this gig will work out first? The season doesn’t start till the end of the year anyway and I need money – not everyone is still contracted to Ryuujin Nippon in their downtime.”

He side eyed the spiker – there was an insult somewhere in there, so subtle that he couldn’t decipher it. Oikawa dropped a few packaged milk bread buns into his small basket.

“How’s your knee doing?”

“It’s fine,” he answered, shifting his weight off of his right leg and on to his left, “four months in and we’re stable. I can jump my normal block without putting too much strain on the damn thing.”

He moved away from the shelf and went to the frozen goods. Iwaizumi followed him closely.

“Rehab usually takes six months on average, yeah?” Iwaizumi inquired. Oikawa nodded. “Then you’d be ready for Jakarta?”

He grimaced, mentally preparing himself to repeat the words he had given to Mattsun two months prior. “Too much of a reach.”

“Did they tell you that?”

The brunet shrugged. “They don’t want to risk it in case I mess it up. FIVB Championships are in September, they want me there for them. If I get injured in the Asiad in August then I’m set back not only another six months but maybe another year entirely.”

“But your basics are good, right?”

He nodded. “Jumps are stable, my reflexes are fine, and I’m almost able to do my usual jump serve.”

“No weird inflammation?”

“None.” Oikawa dropped a few pre-packaged meals into his basket.

“And your knee is perfectly fine?”

“As far as we can all tell.”

“Then what the fuck is with this fear that you’ll hurt yourself again?”

The setter froze, fist tightening around the small packet of frozen vegetables he had just grabbed.

 _Don’t falter, don’t let him know_.

Iwaizumi sighed.

“Mattsun called me and said he was worried about you – he thinks you’re gonna do something stupid if I don’t intervene. I told him I’d talk to you, but I didn’t think you regressed _this_ much since Christmas.”

The setter looked at the spiker from the corner of his eye. “It has been a rough few months, hasn’t it~”

“It must’ve been if you’ve been picking fights with Makki’s writer for no reason.”

The taller male paused and pouted for a moment, pondering whether he should reply. He chose not to, instead clicking his tongue and moving further around the back of the store. Iwaizumi followed.

“You’re a strong guy, Oikawa.”

“Why do you insist on telling me lies, Iwa-chan?”

“They aren’t lies and you know it.” The ace growled. “No one who has ever known you has ever considered you weak. Maybe an annoying pretty boy – but weak, never. No one will think less of your for an injury, no one has ever thought less of you because of your knee either. You’re recovering well, even if you’re stuck inside your own head and forcing yourself to take longer-”

“I am not-”

“The Oikawa Tooru I know would have been doing jump serves by the beginning of last month and would have been strategizing for the Asiad. He would have been out in public every single day to prove to people he was fine and ready and capable of leading Japan to a gold medal as the starting setter he deserves to be. You’ve psyched yourself out and I want to know _why_.”

It would a lie for Oikawa to say he didn’t know why he was acting this way. He knew why. Insecurity was double-edged sword that tore away at whatever shred of pride and common decency he had left.

There was only so much he was considered to be good at – volleyball for one, sociability for another. And it took him years to come to terms with the idea that he couldn’t be the very best, that there would always be someone above him whether it was through sheer natural talent or hard-work. He could accept that, even if it was only a miniscule amount.

But the injury proved he was not infallible; he was replaceable in everything he was good at. Tobio would be better than him, could go a further distance because his natural capabilities as a setter enabled him to do so. But over time, Oikawa realised that it wasn’t the act of Kageyama Tobio replacing him that set his guard up; it was the speed with which they did it.

Yes, it was an irrational detail he dwelled on – Ryuujin Nippon needed a stable team in order to compete in the international competitions in the lead up to 2020 – but it was always, _always_ going to be concerning. It was as if they knew Oikawa would break, as if they had planned and anticipated for his failure and sought to make a Plan B to compensate for his fuck up.

And then there was Writer-chan. His neighbour was not likeable – if anything she was a bigger asshole than he was – and yet time after time he found himself watching people he considered friends to side with her, as if they were under some spell that forced them to shift their loyalties. What did this woman have that he didn’t? She was a genius in writing – not making friends. This wasn’t some manga where the protagonist is loved for the fact they are the protagonist. It didn’t make sense to him. And it infuriated him when they said she was like him – if she was like him then why didn’t people side with him more? Why were they making him be the bigger person? She had agency too.

He put his heart into everything he was good at; he gave and he gave and he gave and what did he have to show for it?

Something flashed across his face, and Iwaizumi caught sight of it, finally cleaning up the lines that were hazy around the setter’s being.

He was scared.

Iwaizumi snatched the basket from Oikawa’s grasp. “Let’s go, you owe me dinner.”

Without another word, the spiker turned around and walked through the story towards the register.

There was an underlying message in the closing sentence.

_“You’re gonna tell me everything in a place where I can yell at you freely.”_

Oikawa lingered for a moment before following silently, obediently.

He couldn’t avoid Iwaizumi Hajime forever.

 

* * *

 

“I’m impressed (Name)-chan. How’d you know all of these cool places when you never leave the house?”

“I only go to the best when I do leave.”

Bokuto snorted and nudged her shoulder, knocking her off balance and shirting her course slightly further into the sidewalk

It had been getting harder for them to meet as the days went on, and the salt-and-pepper haired male was determined as ever to see the (h/c)-haired woman as often as he could.

The first step to friendship, he argued, was making your presence known in the other’s life. To be a constant meant that the foundations were strong, and would not yield in the passage of time.

And that’s what he did, much to the writer’s dismay.

He dominated her weekends, mainly because he was often free form Ryuujin Nippon and Tokyo FC commitments on a weekend, and there became a constant back and forth of showing little pieces of their lives to each other.

To (Name), it felt as if she had known him for forever – as if Bokuto Koutarou was a solid pillar in her life that she had always known, had always _trusted_.

To be frank, it scared her.

It probably scared him too, but he seemed to be (surprisingly) better at hiding that.

Not even Makoto had this much progress with the woman when they first met. It took the ravenette an entire year to peel back the first layer of the writer, and yet here was the dual-coloured haired spiker who had hacked away at every wall and barrier she erected to try and be by her side.  It was too fast, it caught her off guard. She preferred to know everything, to be in control of every situation – and suddenly it felt as though she was in the driver’s seat and had let the man take a hold of the wheel for her.

In short:

There was something about Bokuto Koutarou that was too good to be true.

She pondered for a moment.

Maybe it was life in general that was too good to be true.

The spring breeze blew past them

“You want my jacket?”

“That was a tepid wind, Bo.”

“But you could catch a cold! Your immune system must not be able to handle the sudden changes in the wind after being inside for too long!”

“I don’t like you.” Bokuto guffawed, draping an arm around her shoulders as they continued to walk towards the station.

In the growing months of friendship the spiker had become fluent in the language of (Surname) – ‘don’t like’ and ‘hate’ never meant that; rather it was a variant of teasing that expressed her fondness for someone.

That’s how she showed she cared, and he understood that only the strong-willed people in her life could take that type of constant treatment.

Bokuto Koutarou was proud to be one of them.

And the more Bokuto pestered and teased and jested, the more willing she was to dish it back, just as fast and witty as he expected a writer to be.

Any progress was good progress to him, and every step forward was a little bit closer to understanding her on a level much deeper than what most people seemed to understand. He knew too much about her, had learned the basic ins and outs of her life that she kept private, and he was proud of that. In return, she knew the bits of him that not even Kuroo or Akaashi knew.

The spiker had learned (Name) was an eye for an eye type of person – give and take was something she naturally, even if it was uneven in its distribution.

The station was still roaring with life, the Tokyo nightlife filling the atmosphere around them as they made their way to the platform that would take them to the Bunkyo ward. The train itself was silent, and the two sat side by side on the seats as the carriage trundled along the tracks.

“Where’d you find that restaurant? It doesn’t seem like your type of place to hang out.”

The writer remained stone faced. “Makoto found it in one of her first visits to Tokyo... It’s more her style, but the food’s good, and they have reasonable prices.”

Bokuto tilted his head slightly. Makoto was, admittedly, still a sore topic four months on. He hadn’t expected her to make a full recovery from the withdrawal of a long time friend, but he didn’t anticipate her mood dropping at every mention or memory of her.

“Haven’t tried talking to her?”

She shook her head. “She needs time. I need time – I’m still an ass. There’s no point in apologising if I don’t mean it.”

He quirked a brow. “But you _do_ mean it...”

She didn’t respond, and he read between the lines as best he could.

_How much pride can one person have?_

They sat silently on the train for a moment before Bokuto began ranting about training, attempting to ease the tension of the situation away. He complained about not being able to sync with the veteran setter for Tokyo FC, and how now that his friends weren’t with him he had to manage his own mood swings.

(Name) was surprised he was so aware of how easily his moods shifted – she thought that he would be completely oblivious about it. Somewhere along the way his arm found its way back across the expanse of her shoulders, she leant back into his touch.

The weather had cooled down when they reached Mejirodai, and Bokuto still had his arm around her as they exited the station and stood on the side of the street. The district had quieted down, nearing quarter-to eleven. The two weren’t surprised, it was a Sunday – work commitments and school were on the horizon for the average individual. Mondays were always rough, the earlier you could prepare for it the better.

Bokuto retracted his arm and moved so he was facing her head on.

“It’s late.”

“It’s 10:45.”

“It’s a Sunday, it’s late.” Bokuto retorted, composing himself to appear more mature. She laughed at him. “Want me to walk you home?”

“I live in the opposite direction from you.”

“No sweat off my back; I’ve been meaning to up my cardio before the Asiad.”

She pushed against his chest, he barely moved a muscle. He pressed closer, rest his weight against her palm. “I’ll be fine, Bo. What’s the worst that can happen on my way home?” (Name) shrugged. “I need to get stuff from the konbini anyway-”

“I needed to do my arms too, what luck!” He leaned forward a bit more.

“Bo-”

“(Name)-”

She flicked her forehead with her other hand, a faint red mark appeared. He straightened out his stance, rubbing the place he’d been hit with a pout adorning his features. She frowned in turn, reaching up to pat (read: awkwardly tap) the spot.

“I will be fine, Bo. You don’t need to be there all the time.”

His pout deepened, part pain and part disgruntlement at the rejection.

“Do you do this to that Kujo guy as well?”

In an instant, the spiker’s face morphed into amusement, the change happening all too quickly before her eyes.

“Yes I do this to _Kuroo_ ,” he corrected with a wiggle of his brows, “He appreciated my chivalry and gentlemanly nature.”

She scoffed. “Do you dance and serenade him with (flowers) as well?”

Bokuto pushed her hand away from his forehead and squeezed her fingers for a second.” Nah, only pretty girls get that type of treatment.”

(Name) narrowed her eyes. “I’m still not letting you walk me home.”

“Damn it!” He threw his head back, “I thought that would work!”

It was the writer’s turn to laugh at him. She didn’t notice the way he grinned at her response. As she went to retract her hand away from his chest, he grabbed her wrist and held her in place.

“Are you free later this week?”

“Would you believe me if I said no?”

He rolled his eyes and tightened his grip slightly. “I’ve got two days off training, Wednesday-Thursday, did you wanna go somewhere?”

She tilted her head. “Not gonna spend it with that _Kuroo_ guy? Or that Akaashi guy? Or any other friends?”

“I see them a lot.”

“You see me a lot.”

“Yeah but it’s a lot of effort to see you. Them, not so much.” He grinned down at her, deviously.

And then it softened, the smile matching the tone of his request, and god what type of ass would she be if-

“What’d you have in mind?”

Fireworks lit up behind the golden irises. “I’ve always wanted to go to Universal, and that’s a two day job, isn’t it? We could leave Tuesday evening and come back early Friday morning so we had enough time to do everything. You can show me your hometown too! I heard there are some really good places to eat around Dontonbori. You lived near there, yeah?”

The small smile that she wore upon her face faltered as the flurry of words left his mouth. The thought of heading to Osaka sent chills down her spine. Bokuto caught on and immediately back-pedalled.

“Or not... I don’t have anything set in stone.”

She inhaled sharply through her nose. “You seem set on Universal.”

“There are other chances; I’ll drag Kuroo when I have the chance.”

“We can still go-”

“There are so many places, (Name)-chan, no biggie!”

A pang of guilt ate away at her stomach.

“Just... Just let me know, it’ll be on me.”

He shook his head. “No, I invited you-”

“I’ll pay.” She insisted, her face something into something vulnerable and apologetic, something Bokuto had not seen before.

She manoeuvred the hand he held so she could entwine their fingers and give them a squeeze. He sighed in resignation.

“I’ll text you when I decide.” She hummed at his response, slowly untangling their hands from one another.

“Sounds like a plan.” She grinned softly. “Two days, yeah?”

He nodded. “Two days.”

 

* * *

 

Throughout her trip back home, (Name) pondered over the plans that had yet to be confirmed.

Was she really that petty about returning to Osaka?

Yeah, she was, but one couldn’t blame her. There was a high chance of being spotted by someone she knew, an even higher chance of running into Makoto who still had not talked to her since January, and a possibility of seeing her father – _of all people_ – in the centre of Dontonbori where _everyone_ seemed to congregate.

The risk of a breakdown was not worth the reward of Bokuto’s happiness – no matter how much she wanted to keep him happy.

She exited the konbini (Haruko wasn’t on that evening, and the writer was unsure of whether she was happy or disappointed) and turned right to continue her walk home.

Maybe if she and Bokuto kept their trip on the down-low, she could avoid any possible encounters.

But this was Bokuto Koutarou, she thought – the man who looked as loud as he was, and who tended to publicise a lot of his adventures because man did he have _adventures_.

(She remembered the first time he wanted to post a photo of their outing, a quiet dinner rendezvous in Roppongi that the male had organised. (Name) profusely refused since (1) her official Instagram was more for teasing books and works than personal details, (2) she only used Twitter and even that was central to her career and indirectly mentioning Hisakawa being a dick, and (3) transparency was something she thought the public should not have when it came to her.

“Why not post more about yourself (Name)? Drop the ‘Mysterious Edgy Writer’ act!” He demanded. She ignored his comment entirely.)

Why did she even agree to going? The writer pouted her lips as the question appeared through her mind.

She hated travelling – so a two day trip where she was paying really didn’t do much for her. If anything it was more stress, more work than she was ready to take on.

The golden eyes appeared in her mind, a hand holding out a bouquet of flowers and a charming smile that made her own heart swell.

‘Ah,’ she thought, ‘that’s why.’

As scary as his sudden presence in her life was, it would be untruthful to say that she wasn’t thankful for what he had done for her. Frankly, his presence was something she didn’t realise she needed. A part of her hated that, hated the fact that a guy was the reason she was feeling better. But another part of her didn’t give a shit about that – all she cared about was that someone was genuinely caring about her.

Not even Makoto did this much for her when she was still around.

Maybe she hadn’t tried to talk to Makoto because she didn’t want to go back to that. Doctor Nakamura noted her progress, albeit small, and the writer couldn’t help but thing the ace was the reason why. Bokuto pressed further, held no punches when he wanted to know something. Makoto hesitated, it was her nature to do so and (Name) couldn’t judge that, but for someone like the writer, that was not a good thing.

But was she ready to throw away her history with Makoto in order to accommodate Bokuto’s newfound presence in her life?

_When did my life get so damn complicated?_

(Name) stopped and glanced around. She hadn’t realised she was standing outside of her apartment.

She shifted the bag in her hands so she could unlock the door. It squeaked on its hinges and she slid in before it could slam shut, shrugging off her shoes in the same motion and slipping into-

The pair of indoor slippers that were not where they usually were.

 Instead, a pair of dress shoes lay in the place where the slippers once occupied.

They weren’t Hanamaki’s.

She dropped what she held in her hands in the genkan, forging the customs and stormed inside because only two people had a key to her apartment; Hanamaki, who always greeted her at the door with a timing that seemed to perfect, and Mattsun, who would never come in unless he knew she was definitely home.

She rounded the small corner, ready to confront whoever was inside her apartment when all the fight shrivelled up and died inside her throat.

She was met with a man who was seated on her couch, glancing around in curiosity. The closely cropped black hair and black business attire were all too familiar in her mind. Her eyes met the stranger’s and she felt her live drop into her stomach.

“(Name).”

Her eyes narrowed and her body moved towards the nearest wall on instinct and slowly backing into the kitchen. “Get out of my apartment.”

“Kobayashi (Name) that is no way to treat your father-”

“It’s _(Surname)-_ ”

“You’re still my daughter-”

“How the fuck did you get-”

“Language-!”

“ _How the fuck did you get into my goddamn apartment!?_ ”

She sneered the words out, her voice reverberating around the empty walls and crashing into the two bodies that stood on opposite sides of the room. She felt a growl rise in her throat, her glare intensified by each passing second.

“You’re the only (Surname) (Name) in Tokyo,” he supplied calmly – too fucking calmly for the writer’s liking, “and after I found your apartment your editor let me in once I informed him I was your father.”

(Name) balled her hands into fists.

“I’m gonna fire him.” She deadpanned resolutely, more so to herself than to the other person in the room.

For once she meant it.

The man – her father – exhaled deeply. “You’re still pushing people away, it seems.”

“Well, y’know, I learnt from the best.”

The man faltered from the implication.

“Of course,” (Name) continued sarcastically, “only _you_ could have taught me the most important things in life; trust in others is meaningless. Makes sense right? I expect nothing less from the man who chose to raise me despite having family elsewhere and dragging me away from the only home I’ve ever known-”

“Your home is here in Japan-”

“ _My home_ was where I lived with mum and you that damn fucking well!”

She slammed her fist against the nearest wall to punctuate her point. Her back was pressed against the counter, and the shelves above her shook from the force. (Name) was never violent – if conflict arose she preferred to use works and psychology, never physicality – but her old man always made her angrier, a little wilder than she cared to admit.

She heaved air into her lungs, trying to calm down the red vignette that lined her vision.

“So why are you here then?”

The man stood up and opened his arms, taking a step forward.

“Can’t I-”

“You don’t do anything without solid intention, _especially_ when it comes to me; don’t treat me like an idiot. I know you better than you think I do.”

There was a beat of silence as her father gathered his thoughts. She watched him, fingers curling against the granite countertop that she rested on. (Name) watched him sharp eyes, taking in every breath and minute micro-movement the older man made. She would not be fooled; she would not be strung along – not by a man like him.

“I wanted to congratulate you for your books... Your first one won the Japan Bookseller’s Award didn’t it?”

It did – but the award didn’t have much substance. That award in itself was about total sales per quarter, and the surveyed stores would nominate their top selling book and author to be considered. It wasn’t a prestigious award by any means, but traction meant traction – and if it was enough to get her father up here to visit her then it was too much.

“And all your works have been received so well; a lot of family friend’s have been meaning to send their regards so I thought I’d do it for them. It’s not every day a local gets equated to Oe.”

His last statement set off the alarm bells in her head.

“That’s not all.” It was a statement, and she swore she saw her father shudder at the way her gaze hardened in mere seconds.

The visit could not be that simple, that pleasant – this was her father. He didn’t do niceties; everything had purpose, and most of those purposes were solely designed to benefit him.

“I’m having dinner with a few associates from overseas-”

“Oh this is fucking rich.” She interjected, throwing her hands up as her anger faded into disbelief. “You want me to cosy up with people _you_ have to entertain for _your work_? What kind of father does that?!”

“They’ve met every other employee’s family-”

“Isn’t it unfortunate that you don’t have one then?”

The air grew stagnant and stale, an uncomfortable tension arising in the atmosphere around them. Her father tightened his fists and took a step forward.

“It would mean a lot to me if you sacrificed _one evening_ of your time to indulge your old man.” He stated slowly. Her hair stood on end, she recognised that tone. It was a threat.

“What good would bringing a stranger unrelated to you into your business matters do?”

“You’re still, legally, Kobayashi (Name).” He emphasised. She shook her head.

“That girl died the same day she realised you took her from the one home she had.” (Name) deadpanned, straightening herself out. “And I’m glad she’s dead; at least she isn’t suffering anymore... And for your information, _Father_ , while my name change was informal during high school, the moment I graduated I changed that shit so quickly it would of made your head spin. Which means I’m (Surname) (Name) – and since no one by the name of Kobayashi lives here and no one of that variety allowed you to enter, I’m gonna have to ask you to leave.”

The man stepped forward again, shaking his head.”The person who let me in was _your_ editor-”

“Then you should invite _him_ to the fucking dinner if you’re so fond of him.’ (Name) interjected exasperatedly, “but fair warning – he’s gay as shit and I know how much you hate change.”

There was a moment of intense glaring.

“Please leave before I call the police.”

“I am-”

“Leave-”

“Still your-”

“Now-”

“Father-”

“Vacate-”

“I demand respect, (Name)!”

“Go fuck yourself, you entitled asshole!”

Their voices were escalating too much, and she couldn’t control the way her voice wavered with emotion. She used to be able to talk so calmly towards him, never giving away how she felt. Why was it now that she couldn’t do that?

“You come here talking about respect as if you’ve done anything remotely useful in my life that would warrant it! You’ve done nothing! Nothing for me, for mum, for _anyone_! You were a sorry excuse for a parent then and you’re an even shittier one now! So get _the fuck_ out of my apartment and never come back here; you got that!?”

Her knuckles were white from how tightly her fists were balled, her body shaking – with rage, fear, she wasn’t too sure. All she wanted was for him to leave.

And to her relief, he exhaled. He was retreating.

“Fine.” He conceded, veering his course away from her and towards the hallway towards the genkan. She waited a moment before following, ready to push him out the door and lock it behind him.

She turned to see him standing there waiting, expectantly, as if she owed him a proper goodbye.

(Name) stood stock still, only jutting her chin out towards the door. It was open a crack.

Her father waited for a moment.

“It would mean a lot if you came.”

“You just want to show off the titles – that’s all you give a shit about.”

“That is not true. I’m very proud of you.”

“Not proud enough of your ex-wife’s label.”

“You’re my daughter.”

“And she was my mother.” She snapped, again, the red lines seeping further and further into her vision. They bled, and shook, and she knew she could not hold on for much longer. “You don’t get to erase her from my life.”

“And what gives you the right to erase me?”

She scoffed, and she could have sworn her nails pierced the skin on her palms. “You choose to have kids – we don’t get a choice in being born.... But with the way you raised me, I think I have every right to choose who is and isn’t my parent.”

Her father opened his mouth to reply.

There was a knock at the door.

It swung open a little.

 

* * *

 

There comes a point in everyone’s lives where they are faced with an opportunity of intervention in a stranger’s life.

Iwaizumi Hajime was certain that this was one of those times.

Their evening had been okay, maybe more awkward than the ace had anticipated, but he’d gotten answers to the questions Oikawa was willing to supply.  But even those answers were vague and unhelpful, blurring back into a haze he could not decipher.

Oikawa was scared of being replaced – years of being considered useful, an important cog in the machine had been pulverised into nothing because of his injury. Iwaizumi knew his insecurity already lay in a fine balance, but never did he consider that it would shatter so easily.

Oikawa Tooru was strong – physically and mentally – and so it was strange for his childhood friend to begin to crumble without reason. Perhaps the pressure had grown too much; had he reached to far, gone unchecked for too long?

Was it his fault for not keeping the former grounded? That is what he did all through high school and he seemed to be okay.

But Oikawa was an adult; he couldn’t whip him into shape every single time life threatened to break him down. It wasn’t a good habit to have; Oikawa couldn’t rely on Iwaizumi like that, and Iwaizumi found the need to be relied on a habit he really couldn’t shake.

By the time they had settled down to eat, it was nearing midnight. Most of that was Iwaizumi’s fault, he would admit that much. The setter wanted to run and he would not let him – not until his own stomach growled in submission.

They made a stir fry, and as they ate they fell into comfortable silence – something they had not experienced between each other in what felt like _years_.

And then he heard it; the first yell.

It made him freeze, caught him off guard because that was coming directly from next door – Makki’s writer.

He looked to Oikawa, who looked equally as confused.

“Does that happen often?”

The brunet shook his head, “I didn’t realise Writer-chan could get that loud.”

Neither had the spiker; from Makki and Mattsun’s information on her she was never one to intentionally disturb.

This was unlike what he had been told.

There was more yelling, the sound of a man over a female voice.

“That’s not good.” Iwaizumi deadpanned.

“What happens behind closed doors is none of my business.”

The older male looked at him with disbelief. “Are you fucking _bitter_ about that apology bullshit?” He asked confusedly. “She could need our help right now and you’re being a complete Assikawa?”

Oikawa waved his hand. “It probably isn’t even Writer-chan,” he supplied, “maybe it’s from the couple on this side.” He gestured to the wall behind him. “They’re always fighting-”

The words died on his tongue when there was the sound of something hitting wood. That was the second time.

The wall behind Iwaizumi shook.

That couldn’t be good.

“Still so sure it’s from the couple behind you?”He looked at Oikawa, who in turn cast a glance towards the front door before turning back to his food.

“Maybe Writer-chan needs help.” The response was apathetic at best. He kicked his bad shin on purpose.

Iwaizumi growled, dropping his chopsticks and wiping his hands on his jeans. “You’re a shitty guy-”

The spiker stood up, immediately barrelling towards the door and sliding his shoes on before he threw it open.

As he entered the hallway and let the door shut behind him, he couldn’t help but freeze.

Dark shadows loomed out of the crack in the doorway t his right; the same entrance that belonged to the apartment he always saw closed.

It was so rare to have seen it open.

His feet moved before he could register the motion, and he raised his fist to knock-

The angry voices silenced themselves.

The door swung open a little.

_Fuck, what was Makki’s writer’s name? Shit, it’s a foreign name right?_

“(Surname)-san?”

The woman responded – _oh thank fuck_ – “Who is it?”

“Iwaizumi Hajime... I’m-” He faltered; whatever lie he came up with now would make or break the intensity of the situation before him. “I’m one of Matsukawa’s friends; he asked me to check in on you since he couldn’t make it tonight.” There was a moment of hesitation, and whether or not the lie was truly believed was beyond him.

There comes a point in everyone’s lives where they are faced with an opportunity of intervention in a stranger’s life.

Iwaizumi Hajime _knew_ that this was one of those times.

He pushed the door open, edge barely grazing the suit of a man who stood opposite the writer. Said stranger turned around, glaring at him with hardened eyes that demanded respect and that they be left alone.

The writer looked at him, and he recognised the look – had seen it plenty of times before on his best friend’s face.

Panic.

He intervened.

“Is this guy bothering you?”

“I am not some-”

“Yes. He is.”

Her voice was cold and clear cut, rigid and unyielding in tone. There was no room for argument, and the conviction that surrounded her was terrifying.

There was a flash of something else in her eyes that overpowered the panic, and Iwaizumi nodded because he understood what he needed to do.

“Do you mind coming with me, sir?”

“Yes, I do mind.” He snapped, spinning around to face the newcomer. “I’m busy talking to-”

“I can see that, sir, but it seems that conversation isn’t wanted. So it’s best if you leave before I get someone to call the neighbourhood security and have them you escorted away and maybe detained for causing a public disturbance.” Iwaizumi’s voice mimicked the writer’s, and he made sure not the yield or show weakness. His mental fortitude was good for a reason.

The man turned back to the writer, who now stood with her arms folded across her chest. Iwaizumi didn’t miss the way her legs and arms shook from the attention.

“One last time, sir. I’m going to escort you out of the building. I suggest you let me or the next demand will come from a guy wearing blue.”

There was a tense moment of thought before the man angrily jammed his feet into his black shoes and stormed towards the elevator. The black and (h/c) haired individuals looked at his retreating figure before back at each other.

(Surname) didn’t speak verbally, but the look in her eyes said enough.

 _Thank you_.

He nodded wordlessly before following the man down the hallway. He heard the door click shut when he was out of her point of view.

Iwaizumi escorted the man out of the building entirely, keeping a close eye on him just in case he tried anything. The anger and sadness and frustration in the neighbour’s eyes was enough of him to be certain that this man – whoever he was or was not to her – was not welcomed anywhere the building – or her – in general.

Iwaizumi stood outside the front doors, guarding them as he continued to watch the man on his forced retreat. It was only when the taxi he hailed disappeared around the corner that he could finally breathe a sigh of relief.

‘Did this building even have guards?’ He thought. ‘Oikawa mentioned seeing one or two once a night – why the fuck weren’t they patrolling...?’

The moment the setter appeared in his mind, Iwaizumi’s anger doubled just as immediately. He had half a mind to go back up there and confront the both of them, but he didn’t. It wasn’t his place to do so.

_What kind of ass-_

Instead he began to head to Mejirodai Station, pulling out his phone and typing out a message (read: command) to the pretty boy setter.

 **Oikawa Tooru**  
_Wahh~ Barazumi to the rescue – all that noise stopped.  (11:34pm)_

_I’m heading home.  (11:35pm)_

_Go check on her.  (11:35pm)_

_Don’t be an ass about it either, that’s the Hopeless Couple’s friend.  (11:35pm)_

_I’ll see you tomorrow.  (11:36pm)_

_-_ Oikawa Tooru is typing-

The spiky haired male locked his phone when he saw the reply being formed and put his phone back into his pocket.

He knew what Oikawa was going to say, but for once in the setter’s adult life he needed to grow a pair and stop feeling so sorry for himself.

He was strong, stronger than he let on, and the sooner he realised that these people he despised were much more like him than he believed then the sooner life would be a little easier for him.

 

* * *

 

There comes a point in everyone's lives that forces them to test the limits of how good of a person they were.

Oikawa Tooru was not a good man.

No matter how often his friends had vouched for his Good Nature, it was not true. He was an asshole through and through, and Iwa-chan should have known that.

But instead of letting him live, he forced him to do his dirty work.

Oikawa hesitated at the threshold of his apartment, unsure as to whether or not he should physically go see her tonight or do it in the morning. He could wait – it wasn’t technically procrastination if the next day was less than half an hour away.

But something compelled him to go the balcony; as if that had always been the logical answer to his question-not-a-question.

He strode through his apartment with confidence and threw open the door with a flick of his wrist.

She was crying when he found her.

And man, he thought, she was a goddamn ugly crier.

It almost made him laugh, the way her eyes were puffed up and red, standing out from her usual tired, dark circles. She held her phone in both hands so tightly, as if it were her life line in her last few seconds, and her shoulder heaved up and down in an uneven tempo that made his breathing feel irregular.

His twisted sense of pride made the unsettling situation just bearable.

He took as step out and closed the door behind him. He then step left, inching closer to the side closest to her own balcony.

Something within him compelled him to call out to her, and as “Writer-chan” left his lips, she had looked at him with wild eyes that made his instincts blare out a warning-

“Are you okay?”

 _Smooth, Tooru_.

(Name) stiffened under his analytical gaze, the hands that clutched her phone tightened before she placed the device on the table next to her. Her arms fell limply to her sides.

“Fine.” She lied,” why do you ask?”

He folded his arms and titled his head at her.

It took a lot of courage to pretend to be okay when one was visible distraught, and the confidence with which she spoke made him respect her if only but a bit. She had guts, even at her lowest. He could appreciate that.

“How much of that did you hear...?”

The question was soft, and it felt as though the wind had carried it over to the setter despite the speaker being so close to him.

“Enough to know something wasn’t right.”

That was a lie – Iwaizumi was the one to care.

But if they had skipped the formality of the Apology™ then it would be realistic for him to be concerned.

He frowned; he was over-thinking this. It was clear the writer was in no state to refute his claim.

(Name) wiped her eyes with the back of her hand.

“My dad decided to visit...”

“I should’ve known it was daddy issues.” The words escaped past his lips before he could stop them, and for a moment he was paralysed with fear because _fuck why are you being a Fake-kawa now?!_

And then she laughed; a tired and bitter and angry one.

At him, maybe. He couldn’t really tell amidst her veil of tears.

“Tragic, isn’t it? The Illustrious (Surname) (name) – leading author for the past two years, Oe Kenzaburo of our generation, success story from Osaka – plagued by something as mundane as familial bonds, not the illness and issues she writes of, or the decay she imagines, oh my no.”

The edge to her voice unsettled him. He wasn’t used to the amount of sass that laced her words. He was used to the apathetic deadpan, the expressionless remarks and snide provocations. This, this was uncharted territory; dangerous and baffling, but intriguing all the same.

As if her mask had finally been removed.

“That’s a lot of titles.” He noted.

“Read a review and you get at least one of them mentioned.” She retorted. He folded his arms.

“Must be nice.” He hummed, and she rolled her eyes at him.

“Dad thinks so.” She sniffed loudly once. “Reckons that the publicity is a good thing; that’ll it’ll all work out for him since it’s all working out for me. Tradition and family honour, or something I don’t really know.”

“He sounds like my dad.”

“I’d expect nothing less from a traditional Japanese man, y’know?” She offered up sarcastically. “It’s just, annoying...” She threaded a hand through her hair.

“I’m trying to make something out of myself, something I _know_ I can do, and for years he couldn’t accept that, couldn’t believe I didn’t want anything else in this world. And of course he was right, y’know? I’m not happy doing what I’m doing because the system is bullshit and you have to play to _their_ game to be happy. To them, success equals happiness and that’s how _he_ thinks, and if they agree then that makes him right and I don’t want him to be right – he’s not allowed to be!

“And then I played the game and I got the acclaim everyone expected me to get and guess what? I’m still dead inside, I’m still not happy with anything I’ve done. And there he is, he tries to storm back into my life because he was _right_ ; as if he had stakes in my being and any agency in who I was when he never gave a shit before the money came in – as if being successful is the only the only reason he can come talk his only child again! Like, where the fuck was he when I needed him when I was growing up and actually _needed_ guidance in the direction I wanted to end up? Trick question – he was nowhere because he didn’t think I was worth looking after!

“And a part of me gets, right? Like here’s this ass that only had one wife who divorced him and one kid who has come to hate every fibre of both his and her own being and that’s it. He’s got nothing else. And when said kid makes it, he tries to barge in because Family Honour and Tradition and Respect and Legacy and _they are all bullshit_!”

She slammed her fist against the barrier.

Oikawa forced himself not to wince.

_Was the slamming from next door actually from her?_

“I don’t want to understand him! I shouldn’t _have_ to understand the man who ruined what I had and gave me what I didn’t need!”

He hesitated for a moment. “I don’t think anyone is asking you to understand him...” He supplied gently. “Maybe that’s just your subconscious trying to rational.”

“Makoto wanted me to understand him.” (Name) deadpanned. Oikawa watched her deflate. “The only thing my subconscious is telling me is that I need to stop being unhappy for God only knows what reason.”

“Is that why you’re, uh, going to therapy?’

She shrugged, fists clenching a bit tighter. He swore he saw drops of crimson escape from her creases of her skin. “Therapy was for the burnout since, y’know, I’m all unhappy with my successful career... Therapist thought the root of the problem came elsewhere – guess she was fucking right about that.”

He blinked.

“You don’t think success can equal happiness?”

“Of fucking course I don’t.” She stated, as if it were plainer than day. “Like yeah, sure, success is something people want but when it comes to writing I don’t really give a shit.”

“Because people will support you anyway?”

“Because I have a _reason_ to keep going.” She corrected. “It was never about being the next Oe or being a bestseller – I had shit to say, a talent to write and a platform to use. I don’t care about sales and deals and prints and interviews – at the end of the day I want people to care about the words, not the stats Kodansha care about.”

A part of him understood that sentiment; that’s why he got into volleyball all those years ago. There was a joy about spiking and setting for his teammates... But time goes on and things change – being the best meant that you were on the court longer, and that you could keep doing the thing you loved.

And he understood the frustration of parental miscommunication, to an extent. His father was the same – when he started gaining attention back home in Miyagi, the senior Oikawa did the same thing. But they worked on it because-

“Have you tried _explaining_ that to him?” He asked, curiously. “Like, ‘Hey dad – I’m not really about the whole success thing so lay off’?”

She laughed at him dismissively. He frowned. “You underestimate how little respect that man had for me in my youth, and how little I give a shit about talking to him in my adulthood.” She shifted her weight, wiping her eyes once again. “Not all of us have decent parents who attempt to understand us. Some of us get stuck with what we’re given and it breaks us to the point of no return.”

Oikawa faltered.

“So you hate him.”

(Name) sighed in defeat, glancing at him from the corner of her eye.

“That’s the thing. I just...can’t bring myself to hate him y’know? He’s...”

She faltered, buffered like a video, as though the thought was there but her throat did not want to let the syllables escape her throat. “He’s my dad.”

The statement was one of defeat, said in a tone he was sure he heard in the deep recesses of his mind.

“He’s one of the only things I have left and I don’t want him to be...”

“Where’s your mother?”

He knew the answer from all those weeks ago, the image of Bokuto and the writer on the balcony had been burned into his mind ever since.

“Dead.” She answered with a shaky breath. “I was six; we were living in (Country) after my parents got divorced. She taught at a local high school and my primary school was right down the road. I would walk to her school when it was dismissal and she would drive us home. And every day, I would ask her about what songs she taught her students and she would always tell me that she would teach me them when we got home... And then one day, neither of us made it home.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. It’s his fault I’m here.” She waved her hand. “My uncle was perfectly capable of taking care of me but that ass insisted I move to Japan and live with him; said he’d raise me well... Guess that worked out well – his only child became the biggest Asshole in all of Osaka.”

“Do you regret coming here?”

She didn’t answer verbally, but Oikawa noticed the way she tensed the shoulders.

 _Just a little bit_.

He hadn’t realised his hand was stretched out towards her until he caught his fingers closing around nothing but the spring air.

Oikawa knew that look, had seen it countless times when he stared in the mirror.

Broken.

The setter reached over and grabbed the edge of her balcony, letting his fingers tighten over the lip.

‘I’m here’ it said, ‘I may not fully get it but I’m here for now – take it or leave it.’

She looked down at his hand, then back at him.

She placed her hand on the balcony next to his, mere centimetres a part. He understood the message.

‘Same here,’ it said, ‘you can hate me but I’ll try to understand.’

He didn’t move away.

“What’d your therapist recommend for the burnout?”

“Taking a break from writing, now I’m just writing my older style rather than the new shit I’ve been pumping out the past few years.”

He frowned.

“Maybe you do need a break; like a real break?”

“I can’t stop now, I’m in my prime.”

“You can’t, or you won’t?”

“Would you be able to stop for a full year to ensure a stable recovery?” She countered, side eyeing him with saddened features. He sighed.

No he wouldn’t – he couldn’t.

The same way volleyball was entrenched in his mind, writing was engrained into hers. The feel of the ball would always linger under the tips of his fingers, and for her the pen on her skin. His eyes were trained to see everything on the court and in his teammates, and she had a mind that absorbed information as minute as breathing in a manner as fast as light itself.

They were the same, he knew that now.

The same way he poured everything he had into the sport he loved, she had poured her entire essence into her craft. And in the end, it amounted to nothing – it left them both empty.

He tightened his grip on the railing, fingers scraping against the cold cement. He watched her fingers do the same.

The sirens went off in his mind.

Maybe they were more alike than they both originally thought.

 

* * *

 

Kuroo and Bokuto had no sense of time when it came to movies.

The moment the latter had arrived home, he had plopped himself beside his bud and immersed himself in the action movie the bed-head was watching. In random moments of lengthy and boring dialogue, Kuroo pressed about his date with (Name).

“Friend date” Bokuto corrected, but he was never perturbed from telling him about the meeting. He briefly mentioned the two day trip he wanted to have, and Kuroo arched a brow in his direction. The middle blocker didn’t press further, instead choosing to let the conversation die so he could focus on the film.

It was in the last twenty minutes of the movie where the plot was climaxing towards the cliché explosion that Bokuto finally felt his phone vibrate with a notification.

He shifted his weight, yanking it out of his skinny jeans and unlocking it, still looking at the TV as he did.

Bokuto’s stomach dropped into his diaphragm when his eyes landed on his messages on his screen.

**(Surname) (Name)**

-(Surname) (Name). 10 missed calls.-

He hastily tapped around to call her back when a message came through.

_I’m okay.  (12:01am)_

And then the world seemed to stop because no she wasn’t, and he needed to be there for her cause she was never really okay and-

Just how much did he miss?

Bokuto scrambled up from his position on the couch, accidentally kicking Kuroo who had just begun to nod off. The middle blocker looked around, wide eyed at the frantic movements of his roommate.

“Bo, what-?”

“Can’t talk, will explain later!”

And then he was gone, tackling two steps at a time in the stairwell that wound down from their level towards the lobby. When his feet hit the ground level, he bolted, throwing open the front doors and immediately sprinting off south towards (Name)’s own apartment building.

He never realised how far away her apartment building was from his, how far away it was from things in general. It made sense; she enjoyed her privacy, and the building in question was tucked away in a little corner in the Mejirodai district, probably closer to the border than it was to everything else in the district.

By the time he passed the familiar konbini he was out of breath. He pressed forward, compelled and powered by sheer adrenaline alone.

Not even a professional match could rival the energy that did not want to leave his veins.

And when he saw her building in the distance, the surged doubled and he felt himself rocket forward with a force he had never known before.

Fourteen flights of stairs later, he found himself knocking rapidly on the door. Somewhere along the way, he unfurled his fist and slapped his palm against it, dull thud echoing in the empty and dimly lit hallway.

_Please be okay, please be okay, please be-_

It opened slowly, too slowly, and Bokuto barged it open and wrapped his arms around the person who stood behind the door.

“I’m sorry...” He apologised breathlessly, propping his chin up on the crown of her head. “I should have answered but I didn’t and I’m sorry... Are you okay?”

The writer didn’t reply. Instead she chose to wind her own arms around his torso and press her face into his chest.

A few moments passed and Bokuto felt small wet patches form against his shirt. (Name) sniffed and shook.

He held her tighter, murmuring out another apology – as if her were the one to upset her in the first place – as a nagging thought appeared in his mind.

_How badly had he fucked this up?_

The wet spots darkened, and suddenly she was holding him so tightly, mumbling things Bokuto couldn’t understand.

And then in a flash, they made sense.

_Where were you?_

Bokuto shut the door as he pushed them both further into the genkan, and as it shut behind them he leaned up against the cold wood with his back pressed against it, and the woman against his front.

He couldn’t answer. Instead he rubbed her arms and back and air and held her, because damn if he wasn’t there before then he was definitely going to be there now.

Bokuto wanted to know, he _needed_ to know what happened in his absence.

He would wait for her to make the first step, to call the play.

He had to.

The ball was in her court.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh look, a flaming train-wreck.  
> I know, a lot happened in this chapter and there is a lot to take in since it was really long (almost 10k words long)... That and I've been away for a little while (blame work) so why don't we just break it down a little.
> 
> A rare Concern-kawa has appeared because fuck! do they understand each other? is civility attainable? can we make this ship sail?! will i make this ship sail?!?!  
> I feel like this has become a bit like Pokemon with how many different names and types of Oikawa I've written in the story so far. Bear in mind, I planned 30 chapters and we just broke double digits soooo-  
> Hey - take a shot everytime I call Oikawa something other than "Oikawa"  
> (hahaha guess what i'm doin when the story is done - getting alcoholo poisoning, thas what)
> 
> We learnt about Reader and the Worst Dad of The Year because backstory! needed! to! happen! And of course, whenever she takes two steps forward with anyone, she has to take on step back with someone else. Unfortunately, that meant Baby Boy Bo suffered this time round; but really to it change much? We all read that ending, right? Plus not all friendships are easy sailing - what made you think ReaderxBokuto would be any different?
> 
> And of course, the long awaited return of Seijoh Mum Iwaizumi Hajime! He needs to bere because reasons, but also because I don't think we got enough Barazumi in the opening chapters so I've gotta make up for it somehow~~
> 
> Comments keep me going dearies! Please. keep telling me how we all need a Bokuto and how Oikawa needs to stop being a dick and how Reader is just as bad as Oikawa - it satisfies me greatly to hear that you are just as invested in these characters as I am!


	14. Soft Spots

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A Peace Offering.™
> 
> She couldn’t have poisoned something that quickly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's actually pleasant down there, trust me

_ April, 2018 _

“I’m not afraid to admit I have serious issues, but I don’t believe those issues correlate to my lack of motivation towards life in general.”

Doctor Nakamura looked up from her computer screen to the writer who stormed into her office unannounced.

“Hanamaki-san has been going mad looking for you, (Surname)-san. I think he’s overturned half of Tokyo in the process.”

The writer ignored the comment. She knew that Hanamaki was losing his mind, but she had to disappear. She would have probably punched him in the face if she saw him.

Her therapist sighed.

“We don’t have a session this week.”

“My father strolled into my apartment and I have shit I need to say.”

Nakamura paused before nodding, gesturing to the couch while she rummaged through her drawers for her usual clipboard-pen set.

(Name) shrugged off her jacket and laid it across the arm before relaxing into the cushions of the couch.

It was another minute before the therapist joined her in her usual armchair, but as she took her place, the writer held back no punches.

“The last time I trusted someone without any hesitation or reservation I was six years old.” She began, fingers tightening around the edges of the couch. “It made sense, it’s what you did for your parents – you trust them. He came into my life saying I’d be happier in Japan with him rather than (Country) with my uncle. Parents lie; young and naive (Name) should have known.”

“Did he give you an option or did he convince you to come?”

She shrugged. “When I was younger it seemed the options were clear – Japan or (Country). But when you get older you realise you never read through the lines because that wasn’t a skill you’re taught at the age of six. The choice was live in Japan with a man who said he was my dad or stay in (Country) without mum. It seemed like a no-brainer – I didn’t want to be alone, no kid really does. But the stupid thing I didn’t realise was that either fucking way I would have been left alone.”

“Most of Japan’s children grow up in an environment similar to that of a latchkey kid.” Nakamura supplied.

“It’s not being a latchkey kid if your father doesn’t make an effort to be a formal presence in your life at any point in your upbringing, Doc.” (Name) argued. “There’s a difference between teaching independence and inflicting isolation – I don’t think he ever got that.”

“So you’ve always blamed him for your lack of trust and insecurity?”

“I’ve blamed him for a lot of things – I’ll pin the threat of nuclear war on him if I could – but I didn’t really start thinking about the consequences of all that until I saw just how fucked up I really was.”

“Was that when he came over?”

(Name) clenched her fists, the skin where her nails indented were still raw and red from the week prior. “Avoiding him made me unstable when I finally had to face him. And I realised that I was so closed off because I was scared that everyone was gonna treat me the way he did; and most people do, y’know... I want to be seen as (Name) – but even my best friend ran away from the real me so...”

“Do you want to bridge the gap between yourself and your father?”

“God no.” She scoffed. “I’m an adult but I’m still bitter – he never acted as my father figure and I don’t need one in my life. I just want to distance myself from that, maybe accept that the shitty upbringing isn’t the be-all and end-all of my existence. Like sure I’m an asshole because of it, but I can be an asshole without the baggage, or something.”

Nakamura pondered for a moment, tapping the end of her pen against the wooden board. The taps happened in tandem with the ticking from the clock; it unnerved (Name).

“How often have you been thinking about this? Has it just been from your encounter or even before that?”

(Name) brought her arms in front of her, folding her hands in her lap. “It’s an intrusive thought more recently. It’ll just appear, I’ll be reminded of Osaka and everything I tried to leave behind and I can’t seem to let it go.”

“Have there been other opportunities for you to face them?”

“One. Bo wanted to go to Osaka but backed down when he saw my hesitation.”

“Ah yes, the new friend, correct?” The writer nodded. “Perhaps you need to work up the courage to do so – confront your fears and concerns on your own terms rather than by someone else’s lead. You are a writer, you can create and shape and veer a story as you wish, why not do the same with your life?”

“You say that as if it’s so simple.”

“Nothing in life is simple – recovery and acceptance are some of the most complicated processes we do as human beings.” The therapist stared the writer down for a moment. “Perhaps you start of small – how in charge of you with your career?”

Good question; (Name) thought she had about 5% of a say in everything and anything she did despite being the sole creator of her brand.

Her silence, apparently, spoke louder than anything she could have said.

“How can you expect yourself to move on from your past if you cannot even control your present or future, (Surname)-san?” She proposed. The question made the (h/c)-haired woman freeze. “Progress is a process, and it starts with your life now before it transcends to the before and after.”

She frowned.

Since when did therapy start making all this _sense_?

(Name) stayed silent for the last ten minutes of their last impromptu session, readying herself to leave. As stood up and gave the therapist a stern look.

“Feel free to tell Hanamaki he still has his job.”

 

* * *

 

It was a little past 9am when (Name) was awake and full functional. That in itself was an achievement since the writer was never really up before midday – but things needed to get done and procrastination only lasted so long.

Her vision was not blurry or clouded by a sleepy haze, she had at least two cups of coffee in her system, and she had forced herself into something other than the sweatpants and ratty t-shirt combo she tended to lounge around in.

By ten past, she assumed her usual position in her study, scanning the many scraps of paper that had been stuck to not only the walls of the second room but to every inch of free space in her apartment. They overlapped each other, each brandishing their own set of tears and revision in various colours. There were arrows draw through multiple pieces in numerous directions, often forcing her attention to barren bits of wall here a page used to reside before she had relocated it to its new home.

And then she was writing, crafting, piecing together the fragments of stanzas she had thought of over the past few months. To her, writing had never been something that really came in a flash of lightning – ideas, maybe, but the craft no. Writing was conscious, was something she needed to plan and express clearly so she didn’t make a fool of herself. It required focus, momentum.

Needless to say, the past few months had provided her with little to no motivation in any way, shape or form. And while she was mostly free from her duties and obligations stipulated in her contract, word had somehow escaped that she was going to writer things other than her books, which only lead to Hisakawa interrogating her for more information.

(That conversation had been interesting to say at the very least, happening in the middle of the Literature Department with no less than twenty other editors staring at the two adults bickering. It was a no-hold-back ‘discussion’, (Name) putting her therapist’s advice to good use.

“How can you possibly consider veering into poetry without consulting anyone?” He had inquired, exasperated as the day was long.

“As far as I’m concerned the only person I need to consult is Hanamaki-san and he is all for it.” She countered simply.

“ _He_ has to go through _me_.”

“And then those points come back to me and are rejected since _you_ are not the writer, no?” She shrugged. “Surely a man of your intellect would understand how this industry works.”

“I am fully aware of the way we run our editor-author relationships, (Surname)-sensei, but what I am concerned about is the sudden shift from novels to poetry and the way it will affect the performance of your future works!”

“Are you questioning my capabilities as a writer, Hisakawa-san? Because the true skill of a composer is the versatility of their craft rather than the way in which the craft itself _sells_. And from the response I have garnered it seems that everything is fine for the future. But I don’t expect you to know that, considering the fact that most of my fellow authors you work with often complain about your emphasis on the sales and performance rather than the quality of the composition. Tell me, how many of your clients have maintained the integrity of their work while still complying with the selfish, ego-boasting, prideful way of publicity that you inflict upon them?”

He faltered.

If (Name) had a microphone, she would have dropped it before leaving.)

And finally, finally, there was steam in her system and she was actually moving forward.

But said momentum was cut short at around five to twelve when she heard the doorbell ring. Her fingers paused over the keyboard and she veered her head to the side to try and look into the genkan. The cursor blinked in its usual rhythm.

It wasn’t Hanamaki – he had a key and tended to waltz in unannounced as if he owned the place. At least, before the fiasco with him letting her father into her apartment. In the last few weeks of April had seen a new development; he called ahead or asked Mattsun to do the work for him in fear of having his head ripped off. The privacy was nice – a little hard to get used to but welcomed, especially in her period of recovery.

For a moment she sought to let the bell ring; she had things to do and an actual will to keep going.

But curiosity bested her, and the writer headed towards the door, sock clad feet thumping against the floorboards as she cracked the kink in her neck. (Name) opened the door, barely revealing half of her form as her gaze met a set of curious brown eyes.

It was a boy, one nearing the gloriously awkward time that was puberty that stared back at her. A blue backpack was slung over both his shoulders and another bag rested at his feet. He bowed quickly when their gazes met.

“I’m sorry to disturb you, but do you know if Oikawa Tooru lives on this floor? He moved in sometime last year, if that helps.”

A part of her wanted to deny in get back to writing, but the Non-Asshole part of her forced her to reply. She cocked her head to the side.

Limpy’s name was Oikawa, wasn’t it? But Oikawa never had people visit him; at least from what she had seen. Then again she very rarely left the apartment in time to see _other people_ entering or exiting so what did she know?

“Is he a volleyball player with a bad knee?”

The boy’s eyes widened in recognition.

“It’s his right one – he injured it late last year.”

(Name) nodded in confirmation. “He lives next door.” She answered plainly, using the hand that wasn’t holding the door open to gesture to her left. The boy in front of her pulled his lips into a disgruntled line.”Why, what’s the matter?”

“I’ve been knocking on his door for a while now and he hasn’t answered. My mum said he’d be here waiting for me... And I thought I got the wrong address but I guess not.”

The woman nodded again as she looked towards her neighbour’s residence. ‘Huh,’ she thought, ‘does Limpy have a kid?’

“I don’t know where he is, sorry bud.” She apologised with a tight lipped smile, watching as his shoulders deflated ever so slightly. “You related to Oikawa-san then?”

He nodded. “He’s my uncle.”

‘And just when I thought Limpy was about to get more interesting.’

It was in the break of conversation that the writer became fully aware of the fact that Limpy’s nephew was definitely in Tokyo for a little more than a simple day trip.

_How much of an ass did you wanna be?_

(Name) rubbed the back of her neck in slight displeasure. She had important work to do, but she felt guilty at the thought of making this kid wait around for Limpy in the hall.

“I don’t know when your uncle will be back, but you can wait for him in here if you want.” She said, trying to seem a little friendlier than when she initially opened door. “You look like you need to take a break.”

“I-Are you sure, uh-?”

“(Surname) (Name), and yeah I’m sure. No adult would willingly let a kid wait alone in an empty hallway. If you got abducted it’d be my fault.” She replied, a twisted tone of amusement lacing her words.

It went unnoticed as her neighbour’s nephew bowed in thanks murmuring a soft “Sorry for the intrusion” as he stepped through the threshold, dragging his other bag behind him.

She shrugged it off, opening the door wider and making way for him to enter. She watched him closely as he removed his shoes and grabbed a second pair of inside slippers from the nearby cupboard.

He didn’t look like Limpy; that much was obvious. The boy was tanned in complexion and didn’t have the familiar full head of brown cow-licked locks like his supposed uncle had. His eyes were narrowed and dark brown, with closely cropped shaven hair that was the same colour as his eyes.

“So what’s your name kid?”

“Oikawa Takeru, (Surname)-san,” he replied, “a-and thank you again for letting me wait in your apartment.”

She waved it off lightly and led him to the lounge, carrying his other bag despite his protests. She caught the way his eyes doubled in size at the sight of the walls. Dozens upon dozens of post-it notes and pages of loose leaf paper were plastered on the neutral colours, each with varying amounts of writing a dialogue, all written in different inks and styles. There were piles of notebooks scattered around too, forming the familiar towers she had come to grow fond of in her career.

(Name) had forgotten that normal people didn’t live like this.

“Feel free to watch some TV Takeru-kun. And don’t mind the mess, it’s just for work.” She explained ash she placed the bag down and gestured to the kotatsu – the only surface untouched by the debris of her craft. She smiled feebly, and the boy nodded, still awe-struck by the sight as he plodded towards the couch.

Once the TV turned on, she took it as her cue to retreat.

But she stopped herself, a hand bracing her body on the corner of the corridor. She looked over her shoulder at Takeru, who was still staring around the room, only faltering when he saw the island of her kitchen. (Name)’s eyes narrowed when she noticed the boy scratch his abdomen slightly.

And then it hit her.

‘Oh God... It’s midday. Normal people would be eating... I actually have to feed it.’

 

* * *

 

“So you’re a writer (Surname)-san?”

She nodded, lips clasped around a spoonful of miso.

“What do you write? Are you a mangaka or a novelist?” Takeru’s eyes were wide with interest, and he leant forward against the countertop, elbows pressed against the cold surface while his hands held up his chin.

She pulled away from the utensil, smacking her lips at the lingering taste. It was fine – _thank Christ_. “Novelist,” she answered, “my drawings are pretty terrible.”

(Name) watched him deflate, however the look in his eyes was new. It made her waver. She was used to seeing people be unamused with her work, but this expression was different, uncharted territory.

Oikawa Takeru _really_ wanted her to be a mangaka.

The woman refrained from laughing at him as she watched him shift in place. It was a nice change – an interesting one that she wasn’t sure if she’d ever get used to. She switched off the stove and moved the pot off the heat before dusting her hands against her pants. “Can you take the bowls and chopsticks to the kotatsu, Takeru-kun? I’ll bring the food over.”

He did so wordlessly, and the expression he wore was one of intense concentration, as if he were trying to figure out more questions to ask her that would be entertaining for her.

It took a few trips to bring the two bowls of oyakodon, sides, and miso to the kotatsu, and after a few moments of arranging and a soft “Thanks for the meal” from the both of them, they began tucking in.

“I do know a few mangakas though,” she offered between mouthfuls of chicken and egg, “those departments that feed into the weekly and monthly Shounen Magazines get a little hectic when the deadline closes in.” Takeru’s eyes lit up at the recognition of the two magazines.

“Really?” She hummed in confirmation. “You’re signed with Kodansha?” She nodded again, this time through a small bite of salad. “Does that mean you know Imai Eikichi?”

That was a very familiar name, and she smiled at the memory of their last memory. All charming smiles and pleasantries, heartfelt compliments and endearing commendations; Eikichi was always lovely when they talked. She expected nothing less from the creator of Kodansha’s best performing manga currently in serialisation. His editor, Kondou-san, was also just as lovely. She kept him at bay when necessary, watched his back from the infamous Growler that was the Shounen Manga Head Editor. The pair were completely different to their counterpart pair in the Literature Department (herself and Hanamaki), and yet it was almost amusing to see how well they all got along.

“Imai-sensei and I talk when we see each other; he’s very nice, smart too. He takes a lot of pride in his work so he’d be pleased to know you’re a fan of his.”

Takeru looked at her in disbelief, as if she didn’t just say she knew one of the people who seemed to be a big influence in his life.

“I’m not very good with that _real_ literature stuff,” he admitted sheepishly, “the language always confuses me and my mum doesn’t like that type of stuff either so she isn’t much of a help.. That’s why I stick to manga – it’s a little easier and Imai’s work is really, really interesting!”

(Name) swallowed her mouthful of miso as she nodded in understanding. She knew the look he wore on his face; defeat, shame, slight frustration that you weren’t as good as you anticipated yourself to be. “It’s not fun, is it? But manga is literature too; just because you don’t formally study it in school doesn’t mean it’s not _real_. Mangakas are more talented than I am – they have to draw _and_ have a good understanding of language; I only need that second bit.”

The astonishment came and receded almost immediately, being replaced with a determination that made him furrow his brow and narrow his eyes.

“I’m going to tell my old literature teacher that, and he won’t argue because an _actual writer_ said that.”

Amusement burbled in her mind; were all Oikawa’s this interesting? Or was it an age thing?

“What do you like about Imai-sensei’s work? I don’t really have time to keep up to date with all of my colleagues’ works.” The woman waved her hand around the room in an attempt to emphasise her point. “In the time we’ve known each other, I don’t think we’ve ever talked at length about our works.” She admitted.

The shaven haired boy’s eyes flickered with a moment of passion; the vividness warmed her cold heart if not but for a moment.

And he talked – rambled, rather – avidly about the mangaka’s work. It was a popular sports manga (Eikichi didn’t seem the athletic type but each to their own, she supposed) that had been running for the same amount of time as she had been signed to the company. She had overhead the figures from the last time she and Hanamaki decided to make a formal visit to the Sales Department when they withheld monthly numbers.

Takeru’s eyes remained fired up when he told her they had _finally_ licensed an anime for the series and his favourite voice actor had been cast for the lead. (Name) made a mental note to send Eikichi a congratulatory bottle of something since he was always so hospitable to her. Maybe something foreign... She would probably end up buying him an expensive bottle of sake – that was always a likelihood.

The more and more Takeru talked, the more (Name) thought about the mangaka, finally taking note of the minor niceties he did for her in each of their encounters. It was often small gestures and pleasantries, and it the grand scheme of things they accumulated together and made her look like an even bigger jackass than she already was.

Perhaps she should take a page out of his book.

“What volume is the manga up to?”

“They just published Volume 15 a few months ago, so 16 should be out soon. He’s already broken through 200 chapters in the magazine.”

That was another thing about Eikichi; he was an overachiever who set records on purpose.

 _Stupid Eikichi_.

With a nod (Name) unfurled herself from the kotatsu and padded over to her packed bookshelf, removing a few hard cover books in order to retrieve her desired items. She held the two books in one hand, balancing them flat against her palm as she sat back down. The woman dropped them onto the tabletop and pushed them closer to the boy.

His mouth dropped open, a stray grain of rice following in suit.

“This is a limited edition copy of Volume 1! And Volume 16 hasn’t even come out yet!” Greedy hands scooped up both books, and Takeru examined every nook and cranny of both covers. He looked to the books, then to his hostess, then back to the books, back to her again.  “How did you get these?”

She shrugged. “Imai-sensei sent Volume 1 after we first met – it was a joking gesture about being number one together,” she recalled as she jutted her chin towards the one with the glossy red cover, “and the other he sent as a congratulations for the release of my latest book.” The writer grinned fondly at the books that lay between them. “You can have them.”

He blinked owlishly at her, reminiscent of a familiar wing spiker. “Really?”

“Mhm. I’ve needed to pass those on to someone but I don’t have younger cousins or friends who are interested in this type of stuff. And they’ll be in good hands with you, right?”

Takeru nodded animatedly, “Of course! Thank you very much for your hospitality!” He bowed his head and she scoffed.

“Seriously kid, don’t inflate my ego.” She chimed, making him raise his head and grin at her.

“Y’know, (Surname)-san, you remind me a lot of my uncle.”

Her eye twitched involuntarily. Takeru didn’t notice.

“Our mutual friends have said that quite a bit.” She confirmed, but punctuated her sentence with a shrug. “Can’t say I agree; I don’t know him very well.”

The boy cocked his head to the side.

“Huh? Aren’t you friends with him (Surname)-san?”

The older woman shook her head, slightly baffled at the naivety sitting before her. “We don’t talk that often. My editor is an old teammate from their high school days – Hanamaki.” She poked at a bit of salad. “There’s only so much you can know about someone before it gets too invasive.”

“That’s true, I guess...”  Takeru mumbled thoughtfully, bobbing his head up and down. “So what _do_ you know about him?”

“He’s annoying.”

The statement had left her lips before she could stop it, and for a moment she was paralysed with fear. _Did she really just call this kid’s favourite uncle annoying?!_

But the fear dissipated when she saw him chuckle, covering his mouth with his hand in a half-assed attempt to play it off.

“Mum said she always wondered whether Uncle Tooru was actually an adult or not. She says he’s always been annoying, even when they were kids.”

The writer grinned, amused at the revelation. And while the truth in itself was an interesting insight to her neighbour, the look in the younger male’s eyes was enough to tell her that it was not the whole story of Oikawa Tooru.

“The only other thing I’ve heard is that he’s really good at volleyball. “

Takeru’s smile doubled in size.

“He’s one of Miyagi’s best; he’s still considered to be one of the best players in the history of the prefecture! And the best setter!” Takeru announced proudly. “I’m planning to go to his old high school next year and when I went on a tour there, _everyone_ still remembers him even though he’s really old.”

The woman frowned. She and Oikawa were the same age, weren’t they? 22 wasn’t _that_ old was it?

Was it...?

She poked at one of the last clumps of rice in her bowl.

“You play volleyball as well then?”

“Yep! I play wing – and coach says if I keep training then I could probably be the ace of the team by my second year of high school.”

She nodded.

All of those words went right over her head, but (Name) be damned if she let Takeru know that.

“Not a setter like your uncle?” _That’s what he said he played right? Setter is a position, right?_

He deflated. “Even if I did, I’d never be as good. There was only one other guy in all of the Miyagi Prefecture who was considered to be as good as Uncle Tooru – but that guy always said Uncle Tooru was better.”

The writer tilted her head, pausing her motions to properly focus.

“What’s the other guy like?”

“Scary,” Takeru said, “but he was Uncle Tooru’s underclassman in middle school. Everyone called him a genius since he could do things most other setters couldn’t even dream of. They ended up going to the same university and everything; I think he’s even on the National Team as Uncle Tooru’s replacement.”

The boy popped another scoop of oyakodon into his mouth before continuing.

“Have you heard of him? Kageyama Tobio?”

The writer straightened out her back as the words settled in her mind, but she found it in herself to respond with a shake of her head and a “No”. Takeru looked content.

“He was really mean when he was my age, but then his school – Karasuno – beat my uncle during his last year of high school, and then the reigning champions of our prefecture and then went to the Summer Interhigh Championship. Ever since then he’s gotten _really good_ ; he’s still kind of mean but that never stopped anyone from liking him.” He puffed out his chest. “I still think Uncle Tooru is better.”

An image of Natsuki appeared in her mind and her stomach dropped somewhere deep into her diaphragm. So this Kageyama Tobio was her counterpart in Oikawa Tooru’s life... (Name) pursed her lips. Was this how Natsuki described her to other people? (Name) knew she was an ass but this description was an extreme.

And the hostility he had shown her made sense, suddenly, because it was different from Natsuki in numerous ways. Where Natsuki felt challenged and rivalled, Oikawa felt stifled and trapped – as if there was no way for him to fully  _be_ without the threat of the underclassman’s shadow looming over him. And now with the injury the threat was too real; he had been replaced in a spot that garnered acclaim and praise for someone that made him feel – whether voluntary or not – _inferior_.

She was almost sympathetic.

Almost.

The writer finally met Takeru’s gaze; it hardened with a determination that had not been evident in earlier parts of the conversation.

“It’s good you think that way,” she hummed, “your uncle would probably be ecstatic to here that.”

Takeru froze, a blush forming across his cheeks before he averted his gaze.

(Name) chuckled, redirecting her attention to the rest of the food she still needed to finish.

But in the silence, Takeru fumbled with his chopsticks.

“Is there, uh, is there still food left over, (Surname)-san?”

The writer froze.

 _Fuck_.

 

* * *

 

Karma was an interesting thing.

There were no definitive lines or boundaries or rules that it sought to follow or stay within. It served as it pleased, as if it were a pinch server in a game. There was a strategy in the way it dealt its blows, as if fate were stringing everyone along in uncontrolled ways to try and throw humanity off its course.

But Oikawa knew better; he knew that there was a rhyme and reason behind the uncertainty. Just like in a match, he just needed to figure out what the plan was.

And those thoughts had plagued him for most of the day and well into the late afternoon as he returned from the CBD of Tokyo.

That session with his trainer and his physiotherapist had been more telling that Oikawa could have ever anticipated.

Oikawa Tooru was an impatient man when it came to self-improvement; if he wanted results, he would work to the bone in order to see them. In his teenageyears it was fine, no one besides Iwa-chan was breathing down his throat.

Adulthood, though, was a different story.

Sudden improvement in his stability and stamina and overall basic volleyball skills had increased at a pace far too rapidly for one-a-week sessions. His trainers called him out; he couldn’t deny the fact that he had been practicing by himself a little more than was actually required.

Objectively, Oikawa knew he deserved the lecture he got that afternoon. It was stupid to push himself more and more outside of the sessions when he could injure himself and risk the entire procedure he just had done on his knee. Recovery meant long term advancements, about ensuring that the same injury wouldn’t happen again – not blindly risking it all again without a second thought.

It was even stupider to argue, to complain that he didn’t like being treated like a kid and forced down a path that, while good for him in the long run, would do no good for his career and for the upcoming matches Ryuujin Nippon were facing later that year.  He knew what was best for him – he had made it into the radars of the National Scouts without ever having made it to a national tournament, had been the centre of watchful eyes and scouts from professional leagues around the world – and if he felt that he could take the extra training and pressure then that’s what he would do.

Someone had called Coach Nagakaichi for his opinion on the setter’s attitude.

The answer he was given was something he did not expect.

They gave him an ultimatum; return to Ryuujin Nippon and stop rehabilitation altogether even if it meant that he was not guaranteed a starting position (or a permanent spot entirely) in the upcoming international competitions, or continue with the private rehab and _only_ be allowed to return to the team if he was given the all clear during a final health examination at the end of the year that would guarantee a lower risk of future injury.

Coach Nagakaichi would not let him have both.

He made his decision in a heartbeat.

It was a no brainer.

Granted it was a stupid decision, but no brainer’s tended to be stupid by nature. It was in the name.

Oikawa Tooru was a selfish man.

And though he had chosen the first option, there was still a lingering fear that had nestled itself into the pit of his stomach.

Was he really ready to face a reality where he was surrounded by volleyball, but was denied the right to play the sport he loved?

The elevator doors dinged, and the setter stepped out, still mulling over the question in his mind.

As he passed by the writer’s apartment, the sound of the door unlocking caught him off-guard.

“I thought I heard the elevator,” the familiar voice chimed as the (h/c) haired woman opened the door. He stopped in his tracks. “I’ve got something for you, Limpy.”

Oikawa blinked curiously.

This was the first time they had ever talked outside of the confines of the balcony.

It felt unnatural.

Without waiting for his reply, she held the door open wider, revealing the figure of his nephew hunched over on the genkan step, excitedly shoving his shoes on while his bags rested at his side. The boy looked up and grinned.

“Uncle Tooru!”

“Takeru?” He blinked. “I thought you were coming on Friday.”

“It _is_ Friday!”

 _Oh fuck_.

“Sorry~ I was at physiotherapy all day, we had a lot of progress to make.” He turned to face the door head on, adjusting the bag he had slung around his shoulders. “You weren’t waiting long, were you?”

The boy shook his head. “I don’t think so, no.”

Oikawa turned to the writer for confirmation, but the look in her eyes made him freeze.

_Get this kid out of my apartment._

He had to stop himself from laughing at her.

“You didn’t give (Surname) a rough time did you?” He asked teasingly, watching his nephew turn slightly red.

Takeru shook his head. “I was just hungry.”

Oikawa smirked at the confusion on the writer’s face when Takeru responded. It was clear that it wasn’t _just_ hunger – it was the hunger of a growing boy in the apartment of a woman who barely had time to look after herself let alone anyone.

Oikawa _guessed_ he could take the boy off her hands.

“You’re still hungry yeah?”

Takeru looked to the writer and then back at his uncle, nodding unsurely. Oikawa caught the way the writer’s eyes widened.

“Let’s go then, I was about to order dinner for myself~”

“I-yeah okay.” The boy scrambled up, slinging the traps of both of his bags over his shoulders. “Thank you very much for letting me wait here (Surname)-san!”

The writer shrugged at patted his shoulder as he passed her by, “Don’t mention it yeah? And make sure you look after yourself next time you travel, not everyone is gonna be like me.”

Takeru nodded and immediately went to his uncle’s side.

Before Oikawa had a chance to speak, the door was closed.

Takeru was already moving towards the door further down. Oikawa followed, unlocking the door with his keys and making sure the younger male went inside first.

As the setter shut the door of his apartment, he couldn’t help but look at the expression his nephew wore.

“Are you sure you didn’t give (Surname) a hard time?”

He shook his head. “I didn’t cause her too much trouble – and she was really nice and she even gave me stuff from that mangaka I really like.” The boy pulled out the red covered edition of Volume 1 and brandished it to his uncle. “And she answered all my questions and was interested in stuff I had to say.”

The brunet hummed at his comments, pulling off his shoes with a practiced ease. “Sure she did, now what did you want for dinner?”

 

* * *

 

They encountered each other later that evening on the balcony, and Oikawa felt at ease. Takeru had fallen asleep in the spare bedroom and left the setter to think for most of the evening. The quiet was interrupted when the writer emerged with her usual beverages in tow. For a moment, Oikawa considered ignoring her, but the guilt of leaving his nephew in the hands of stranger became too much.

“Th-”

“You’ve got a very interesting nephew Limpy,” she interrupted, “it’s a shame you aren’t as half as interesting.”

The setter faltered for a moment, but he regained his footing just a quickly.

“I don’t know what you mean, Writer-chan, _all_ Oikawas are charming people – it’s in our DNA.”

She raised the can to her mouth, a slight quirk to the corner of her lips. Oikawa sighed.

“He wants to come over again so he can ask you to tutor him,” the brunet chuckled, “so don’t be surprised if he starts being around a lot more.”

His words coloured the air with annoyance as they left his lips, but for a brief second (Name) caught on to something else... Some faint hue of colour that signalled Oikawa was anything but.

“At least warn me, I barely buy enough food to feed myself let alone a growing athlete.” She grumbled, sipping the bitter liquid.

Oikawa frowned. “Thank you, really.”

“Don’t mention it,” she answered, “it’s been a while since I’ve felt useful.”

Another sip, the bitter aftertaste lingered in her mouth.

The statement stood out in his mind, and though it seemed harmless he knew that it held a lot more weight than she wanted to display.

“How’s,” he coughed into his hand, “how’s everything on your end?”

“Subtlety really isn’t your forte.”

Oikawa scoffed, refusing to look at her.

“Oh, like you’re the Master of the Trade.”

“Civility either, it seems.”

“Don’t go pushing your luck Writer-chan.”

They both paused in unison.

(Name) wasn’t sure if that threat was loaded or not.

If Oikawa was honest, he wasn’t entirely sure either.

“I’m good now.”

“Where were you last week? Makki-Makki came around asking if anyone had seen you.” He stretched his arms out to work out the sore spots.

The last encounter with his ex-teammate had been one that sent shivers down his spine. A wide eyed, light-haired male donning a creased business suit, desperately asking if he had seen any sign of the writer next door – it was a scene that only a typical drama could have presented, and yet there Makki was, in front of his door with fear in his eyes.

(“Lost track of Writer-chan entirely, have you Makki?”

“Don’t fuck with me, man! _No one_ knows where the fuck she is, Oikawa – she doesn’t go AWOL for this long and not warn someone _at least_!” Makki’s hands tightened around the door frame. “Normally she tells Mattsun she’s going somewhere, but she hasn’t had anywhere _to go to_ since last year and-”

The grip tightened.

“I let the guy into her house, Oikawa...That’s all on me.”)

The explanation he had been given gave a lot more context to the situation he and Iwaizumi had found themselves in. Her father had been let in by Hanamaki who had no knowledge of the family history. Oikawa assured him he wasn’t at fault, that he probably had his job still and that the writer was fine.

Granted he wasn’t too sure of that last affirmation himself; she had disappeared the day after they talked on the balcony.

But now Oikawa knew the concerns that Makki and Mattsun had about the writer’s wellbeing and the faults in her uncommunicative nature. Their voices echoed in his head, their comparisons of the two still prominent in his mind.

Was this what it was like to be friends with him? Always concerned and worried over every action he did?

It was a little annoying when he thought about it.

He remained silent as he looked at her, waiting for something – _anything_ – that told him how she was holding up.

She rotated the aluminium Kirin can in her hand, staring at the gold and white patterns as if she were committing them to her memory. “Out.”

_Not a good enough answer._

“Where to?”

“Chichibu.”

“In Saitama?”

“The moss that bloomed this year was very pink; it was a nice change from the cherry blossoms.” She answered lazily.

“Did you go with anyone?”

She didn’t answer him.

Oikawa narrowed his eyes suspiciously.

Didn’t Kuroo mention Bokuto disappeared for a few days? Oikawa thought for another moment.

The monochrome-haired male had even posted a very beautiful photo of the Chichibu festival earlier that week.

It was timed too conveniently, and Kuroo’s warning about the two’s possible friendship still lingered in his head.

 _Don’t fuck him over_.

“You aren’t usually this curious, Limpy.” (Name) acknowledged, casting a glance at the setter from the corner of her eye. “Rough day?”

In other circumstances, Oikawa would not have let the woman shift the focus of the conversation on to him. But (Surname) was not as she normally was, was not the same woman he had encountered late last year.

He would indulge her if it meant he would get a proper answer at a later date.

He shrugged. “They fluctuate more than I’d like them to.”

There was silent, a pregnant one that requested he continue talking.

“Coach Nagakaichi is giving me permission to resume training with the team.”

“That’s good.”

“It doesn’t guarantee I’ll start playing for the team as a starter.”

“And?”

Oikawa looked at her confusedly. “What do you mean _‘and’_?”

She turned her head two degrees, barely looking at him with the same attention. “You sound concerned about the fact you’ve got yourself in again.”

He blinked.

“I am not worried.” He lied.

He was worried, even if it was just a minor smidge of it that stained his confidence, he could not help it. Tobio-chan was still there, was in perfect health and – from what reports had said – was in near perfect condition from the end of the Intercollegiate last year.

How could he _not_ be worried?

(Name) rolled her shoulders back, catching on to the tension that suddenly flared out into the atmosphere.

“How long is your nephew staying?” She inquired, feeling the liquid courage slosh in her liver.

The topic change gave him whiplash – maybe she _was_ the Master of Subtlety in all the _wrong_ ways.

“Only the weekend, I’ll probably send him back to Miyagi Sunday afternoon.” The setter leant his forearms on the balcony railing, skin turn red from the pressure. “I promised I’d take him to a national practice when I was at home for Christmas... Guess I forgot about it.”

Movement appeared from the corner of his eye.

He turned to his left, gaze landing on the outstretched can that dangled precariously between the two balconies. The writer kept her gaze out onto the city’s skyline. She still held her drink in her other hand.

He glanced at her, at the can, then back at her before removing it from her grip and taking his own long gulp.

A Peace Offering.™

She couldn’t have poisoned something that quickly.

“Preoccupation is not the same as forgetting, and you seemed to be busy with life so I’m not surprised this weekend slipped your mind.”

Oikawa saw the sign of a smile on the woman’s lips, the same type of smile she only wore around Bokuto.

His fingers tightened around the beverage.

“It’s okay to be scared for a little while, but everyone I’ve met has talked about you like you are the strongest person in the universe so I’m gonna need you to stop being a complete coward.”

He glared at her, challenging her to continue. She continued, unfazed.

“That Kageyama kid sounds good, but sometimes it’s not just about being _good_.  We all work for the things we reap – some little harder than others, but that’s not necessarily a bad thing. That’s character building, and you need it when you’re trying to be the best... But from what I’ve heard you of _all people_ don’t need to prove that anymore. Your nephew made sure to make the point to me that you are still considered one of the greatest setters in the history of Miyagi’s volleyball circuit. And from the way he talks he’s not just saying that because he’s your nephew, but because he means it – and because everyone else means it. He even said the Kageyama kid says the same thing...

“So the only reason you should be worried about informally returning to Ryuujin Nippon, really, is if you injure your dumb ass again. And from everything I’ve heard, you’re not dumb enough to put yourself at a disadvantage.”

Oikawa raised a brow at her. “Did Takeru tell you he wants to be the ace?" It was a spiteful comment.

“Now, now we can’t blame him. Spiking is the flashiest thing about volleyball.”

“Oho, did you do your research?”

The writer clicked her tongue. “Like I said, your nephew is a very talkative person.” There was a bit of a bite to her words.

“How annoying.”

_How much had Takeru told her? Why the hell does she know so much about him?_

There was a silence, a familiar one that reminded him of the days when he and Iwaizumi were closer.

“Since when were you such a kiss-ass?”

The writer snorted.

“Like _you_ have any right in calling me a kiss-ass,” she retorted pointedly. “Takeru also told me all about how pissy your attitude can be when you want something.” The comment only made him snicker.

The silence consumed them, warm and inviting. Maybe that was the liquor but neither of them really knew – there was something interesting about the other’s company. The fact that they both could see through the many masks the other hide behind probably made their presences a little easier to handle.

But there was still more to know, and in addition to that there was still the obvious tension from January that lingered between them. Oikawa didn’t technically apologise, and even if he was being nice to her now it was only because the circumstances forced him to understand. And (Name) never forgave him, only really coming to terms with who the setter was because there was progress to be made on all of her Personality Flaws.™

This wasn’t friendship.

This was just barely tolerance.

Oikawa looked at his phone.

1:12am.

“Fuck, training starts at 7.” He grumbled. He put hand on his lower back as he straightened out the knots that had begun to form within the tightened muscles.

“Same time tomorrow, then?”

His head snapped around to his left at an inhumane speed, and for the first time that evening their gazes met.

There was a quirk to her lips, a small smile that challenged him to say otherwise. He shook the can in his grasp, the liquid crashing against their confines.

“Is the beer on you?”

“Pick your poison.”

“Chuhai.”

“How fruity, what’s the occasion?”

“No abduction yet.”

“How fortunate, I’ll be sure to bring the goods.”

He grinned at her; she kept the same expression on her face.

“Don’t stay out too late, you’ll scare Makki-Makki again.”

“Someone’s gotta do it.”

Oikawa turned on his heel, raising his hand to wave at her while he retreated inside.

He could have sworn she waved back at him.

This wasn’t friendship.

This was just barely tolerance. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oikawa Takeru is the best boy and nothing you could say could convince me otherwise.
> 
> I admit, this seems a little filler-y to me but that's because when you compare it to all the bullshit that's gone down, it's pretty tame.
> 
> And I dunno about you, but this is exactly what it's like when I'm around kids younger than me. Like all coherent thought reverts to 'oh god i must keep it alive till an Adultier Adult gets to it holy shit' . Apparently its funny to watch - not to experience lemme tell you that.
> 
> ALSO! I completely forgot to address the fact we got pass 50 kudos and 1000 reads whaaaaaat-  
> Thank you to everyone who has enjoyed the story so far! I still have a long way to go (because slow burns suuuck) and I can't wait to hear what you all think about this flaming train-wreck of a fanfic.
> 
> The next few chapters shoulder be too much of a wait since work has been slow and I've had quite a bit of time to myself. Comments and kudos are always appreciated deariers! Let's complain as a community.


	15. Winners and Losers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Wanna talk about it?”
> 
> “Not really, no.”
> 
> “I’m not gonna understand it, huh?”
> 
> “That’s essentially the gist of it, yeah.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TAGS WILL BE UPDATED NEXT CHAPTER AND WILL BE SPOILERY! YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED!
> 
> (more info in the endnote)

_ May, 2018 _

The news came in on the morning of May 1st.

And the woman was enjoying what little time she had left of her usual sleep cycle when her editor barged into her apartment, throwing not only caution and care to the wind, but his briefcase on the floor and himself on to her bed.

Where his hesitancy in overstepping his bounds went, she was not sure.

“You did it! You actually fucking did it!”

An elbow ended up in between two of her ribs, and his face was yelling at proximity far too close for comfort.

“I’m innocent I swear...” She groaned, trying to grab his face and push it away. Her hand found purchase, palm pressing against his nose as she tried to pry him off her. He didn’t budge.

“I didn’t think you had it in you, but you _actually fucking did it_!”

“Hiro I know you’re excited but please don’t kill her.”

She threw her hand up and out towards the bedroom door, “Oh thank God someone with sense – Mattsun, please help-”

She was sitting upright, Hanamaki’s hands on her shoulders while he shook her in time with the obvious excitement that was coursing through his veins.

Her vision focused while the nausea slowly settled into her empty stomach, and then when the fog of sleep fleered she widened her eyes in confusion.

The look on her editor’s face was one she had never really seen before; pure elation and joy, mixed with equal parts confusion and disbelief that were washed out by the overwhelming happiness.

This was concerning.

“What did I do...?” She asked slowly, carefully trying to pry his hands off of her.

“ _It_ (Surname)! You did _it_!”

“Look whatever clown fetish you think I have, you need to reconsider-”

Mattsun laughed. She hadn’t even realised the curly haired male had crossed the room to try and separate them. “Hiro, use your words, you’re an editor.” He reminded, finally acting like the voice of reason.

“Yeah Hiro, listen to the top.”

Hanamaki stopped moving and glared at her, proceeding to thump her in the face with one of her pillows. Wordlessly, he passed it to Matsukawa who did the same, maybe with a little more force.

(Name) frowned.

_Was that a right hit or a wrong hit?_

There was a moment of peace before Hanamaki took the pillow back and thumped her once more.

“The fuck?”

“That’s for two weeks ago; I lost a clump of hair from the stress.” He deadpanned.

“And two nights of sleep,” Mattsun added,  “actually-”

(Name) got hit again.

And again.

 And-

“Motherfuckers-”

She reclaimed the pillow from the shorter male and hit both of them in rapid succession before launching it across the room. “I get it, stop!”

The words were caught somewhere between a whine and a growl – an endearingly scary mix that made Mattsun stifle a laugh.

“What are you, 3?”

“4 and a half, thank you very much.”

She folded her arms across her chest, the final spots that clouded her vision finally fading amidst the brief moments of stillness.

“Look, you might as well tell me what’s going on since you woke me up before midday.”

Hanamaki released a short puff of air, folding his legs across the bed as the creases in his suit became more defined. Mattsun stayed towards the foot of the bed, letting himself lounge across its width lazily, a little more at ease than the editor.

“Guess what got announced this morning?”

“Earth’s imminent demise?”

Mattsun snorted. “We fucking _wish_.”

Hanamaki slapped his thigh to reprimand him before answering. “The Oe Kenzaburo Prize!”

“Yeah?”

_“The Oe Kenzaburo Prize!”_

She nodded. “Yeah I-”

And then she stopped.

“Oh.”

Her heart stopped.

“Oh.”

Then finally a series of lights flashed, flickering to life within her minds.

 _“No fucking way._ ”

“Oe-sensei announced it this morning, the critics are going insane!”

She shook her head and grabbed her editor by the shoulders, shaking him the same disbelief that she knew coursed through his body.

“I did not – it was rigged, there is no fucking way that Oe-sensei-”

Hanamaki pushed her hands off and took his turn to shake her with a similar vigour.

“Fair and square win - he announced it smiling, (Name) you’ve done it!”

“No, no-!”

“Yes, yes, yes-!”

“You’re both idiots.” Mattsun sighed, one hand pinching the bridge of his nose while the other tapped around on his phone screen. He paused and slid it across the mattress towards the writer, “see for yourself (Name).”

And there it was; a bolded headline at the top of his phone.

**22 YEAR OLD (SURNAME) (NAME) BECOMES THE YOUNGEST RECIPIENT OF THE OE PRIZE WITH DEBUT WORK _A MOTH TO FLAME_**

Beneath the title was a photo, a man with tan skin and white hair behind a podium took centre stage, the rest of the backdrop out of focus. She recognised the room as one of the conference rooms in the lower levels of the Kodansha building in the Bunkyo CBD. The subtext introduced him as Oe Kenzaburo.

(Name) didn’t need it; she was very aware of who he was.

Her grip tightened around Mattsun’s phone.

_This wasn’t happening._

Oe Kenzaburo was one of the most prominent figures in not only the Japanese Literary community, but in the entire contemporary world of literature.

Winner of multiple literary prizes like the Tanizaki and the Akutagawa, figurehead in topics concerning existentialism and social non-conformism, and the illustrious recipient of the coveted Noble Prize In Literature; Oe-sensei’s name was one that demanded respect throughout every square kilometre of the country.

It only made sense that a man like him would get to run his own literary prize.

The Oe Kenzaburo Prize was established in the late 2000s, sponsored by Kodansha, and was designed to promote literature to the youth on both a local and international scale. The winner was chosen amongst all genres and styles of work – fiction and non-fiction alike – by Oe-sensei alone and, upon being granted the award, their work would be published internationally in multiple languages and shipped to sellers worldwide.

Although (Name) did not enjoy the prizes she won or was nominated for, she understood why this in particular would be such a pivotal one in her career.

If anything, she considered this to be the most important.

She could practically _see_ the other headlines.

The Oe of the new generation, (Surname) (Name), being awarded the Oe Prize by none other than Oe Kenzaburo himself.

One of the best dressed names in all of contemporary Japanese writing.

One of her inspirations.

 _Oe Kenzaburo_ had chosen _her work_ as the most influential within the past year.

This was big. There really was no other way of looking at it.

The Oe was unlike the Naoki or Akutagawa or Tanizaki or the Bookseller awards that most authors and publishers strived to get. The Oe was more meaningful in most regards, less prestigious in most others. It was about spreading literature, about the love of language and meaning and stories – never sales and performance and reception (even if those were a minor factor of the author’s decision).

At its very core, the prize was about recognition and acceptance in the community, by one of the best writers of her time. And once you were acknowledged then the rest of your life would fall into place.

It’s what happened to the other recipients.

(Name)’s mind began to reel, her emotions mixed and blurred together, ruining the clear cut lines that had defined her motivations.

It would be a lie to say that (Name) had not thought of winning the Oe – the thought had indeed crossed her mind once or twice, but she never truly considered the possibility a real one.

She never published things for the possibility of fame; she had a story to tell and something to say, that’s it. It wasn’t groundbreaking, and even if she was being considered a promising writer then there was still no guarantee she would have been selected.

Oe-sensei didn’t care about that. It was always about the impact, about the words and the way they were used.

She was elated.

But as that elation spread, so did the tendrils of selfishness she had learned from her father. And then the anxiety hit her, wave after wave that rocked her to her very core.

Things were going to change – they _had_ to change – for the better or worse she was not sure.

On the one hand, this was an honour most never achieve in their entire career.

But on the other, things were going to speed up when all she wanted to do was slow down.

This was (Name)’s End Game – and the mere thought of winning it, the reality that she had achieved something _she_ considered valuable was too, too much.

Where do you go when you’ve reached the end of the line?

She hadn’t realised she was shaking until she felt someone’s hands clasp around her own and pull her out of her revere.

She looked up; Hanamaki was staring at her with a look that screamed anticipation. Mattsun had craned his head to glance at her, curious.

“How do you feel?”

That in itself was a loaded question; all three people present in the room knew that.

“Good.”

Not even she was sure as to whether she should believe herself.

But the look on her editor’s face made her want to believe it.

“That’s good, that’s-” Hanamaki grinned, “That’s fantastic!”

“Hiro-”

“I know you want to rest and all but this is _really big_ , (Name).”

He didn’t need to tell her twice.

She already knew that.

Her hands tensed under Hanamaki’s grip – maybe it was just him squeezing her hands, she wasn’t sure. Her mind was blurry, and her tongue was slowly sinking back down, down her oesophagus. 

For the first time in forever, (Name) was unable to speak.

Mattsun sat up, a hand placed on the light haired male’s shoulder, grip slowly tightening around the padding of the suit jacket. “Hiro-” The curly haired man and the woman locked eyes before her sighed. “Babe, she’s probably really tired, we should just let her sleep.”

The writer didn’t reply, and Hanamaki didn’t seem to get the hint that maybe his writer needed to be left alone.

Somehow, someway, Mattsun pried their hands apart and it was then that she realised that she _was_ shaking ever so slightly.

It wasn’t until Mattsun had finally coaxed Hanamaki out of the apartment that (Name) started to cry.

 

* * *

 

One of the ‘rewards’ that came with the Oe Prize was that Oe-sensei would have an open conversation with the chosen winner.

The conversation was always documented, with a commentary on the discussion being published by every major literary commentator and figurehead over the next few weeks after the announcement.

(Name) could only imagine what frenzy the media would fall into after her one-on-one with the author.

It had been confirmed to her on May 4th.

It was scheduled for the 7th, providing organisers with enough time to properly plan everything they needed. The meeting would be held in one of the conference rooms in the Kodansha building, with enough chairs arranged for those who wanted to sit in and watch and a small stage-like area for both Oe and the award winner to sit.

They made her put in an effort at Kodansha.

As if she wasn’t going to put in effort when meeting the man who had chosen her work without hesitation – as he had said in his announcement speech.

What was she, an asshole?

Okay maybe in nature, but on purpose not so much.

Hanamaki had escorted her in earlier that morning, well before the reporters (and most of the regular Kodansha staff) had begun to filter into the building. Hisakawa had joined the pair’s pep talk in the editor’s office, and (Name) refrained from wiping the proud grin the dark haired male wore on his face.

“How’re you feeling?” Hisakawa inquired as he shut the door behind him.

“Pleasantries aren’t normal for you, Hisakawa, please don’t try.” She deadpanned, not bothering to turn and great her editor’s employer. Hanamaki shot her a look. She ignored it.

“Now (Surname), are you going to be like this when Oe-sensei gets here?” He folded his arms.

“Of course not,” she scoffed, “I’m only like this around you because you deserve it.”

Hanamaki dropped his head into his hands.

Before Hisakawa could reply, there was a knock at the door. Hanamaki exhaled in relief before calling for the person to enter.

Hisakawa’s assistant poked her head in, nervous disposition easily breaking the slow-building tension in the room. It was a sign that they were ready for her.

(Name) looked to Hanamaki before following the assistant out the door, the light-haired male tagging along behind her as he stammered out the last sentences of the pep talk that seemed to fall on deaf ears.

For all intents and purposes, (Name) forced herself to tune him – and most of the world – out. There was something more important to focus on; giving the best impression to Oe-sensei. This was make or break – and she wasn’t sure why she was trying so hard but she was.

Maybe it was the fact there were witnesses to her every action over the next few hours. Maybe it was the fact Oe-sensei would be waiting for her in the room. Maybe it was the anxiety that had seemed to linger in her system from her father’s arrival.

She couldn’t pinpoint the cause; all she knew was that she couldn’t fuck this up.

And suddenly the doors to the seminar room were in front of her, and any fight she had left in her had curled up and died in her stomach acid.

Oe-sensei looked the same as in every photo she had seen of him; wrinkled, tanned skin framed by greying hair in an 8:2 parting and a pair of thick rimmed glasses with rounded frames. He wore a black suit with a high collared white dress shirt underneath the lapelled jacket.

The room fell silent. Oe-sensei stood up to greet his guest. (Name) instinctively bowed politely, and when she rose she kept her gaze cast down.

When she reached her seat she bowed again, much lower than the first. He did the same, and both novelists took their respective places opposite each other.

The conversation began with a casualness that gave (Name) whiplash. She had been ready to use as much formal speech as she could with Oe-sensei, but that plan failed as soon as she tried to use it.

“Surely there’s a bit more fight in you, (Surname)-sensei. Don’t think you have to hold back because I’m around.”

(Name)’s eyes widened, embarrassingly, as the humoured words ricocheted in her ears.

Of course he would notice. He was _Japan’s Greatest Writer_.

“Nervous?”

She finally met his gaze. “Do I have a reason to be?” The smile she wore was challenging, but the confidence that laced it was false.

If Oe-sensei knew that, he didn’t press any further than he should have.

“So tell me, why a bildungsroman?”

 

* * *

 

“Hanamaki, please, just let me rest already!”

“(Name) you were so into the promotion-”

“I was into meeting Oe-sensei but I really don’t give a shit about anything else at this point.”

Hanamaki frowned at the writer, who continued to face her laptop that was seated on her desk.

It had been three days since she had met Oe Kenzaburo, and since that day no one had seen the writer in the outside world. People had been talking, as people tended to do when it came to the writer, and most of the rumours that had begun to waft around centred on new works and inspiration from the meeting.

Her conversation had been eye opening; an informative discussion about writing and process and ideas – apparently that had been obvious to everyone. They had talked – much longer than the allotted time allowed them to do – and (Name) had come to know a side of one of her idols she had never thought she would. Oe-sensei had treated her as an equal, had talked through both ‘A Moth to Flame’ and ‘Dragon Tears’ in a way that she could only dream of.

And while she seemed relaxed and happy throughout their meeting and photo shoot, (Name) left without another word to _anyone_ from Kodansha and disappeared. The situation gave Hanamaki a bad case of déjà vu, and his instincts told him to check on her.

Mattsun said she was just in her apartment, writing, reclusive as always.

The wing spiker should have had more faith in her, had left her alone for a little while. But they had to get things done.

“Hisakawa organised this for you-”

“Hisakawa can kiss my ass-kawa-”

“Oh trust me, tonight he will be.” Hanamaki spun the chair around, caging the writer in by placing his hands on either of the arm rests.

(Name) stared at him.

“Look this may work on Mattsun but it ain’t doing it for me.”

Hanamaki frowned and shook the sides of the chair, forcing her body to jostle around in the confines of the plastic.

“Fuck, stop!”

"Come out!"

“I want to stay in and finish this goddamn poem!”

“This is a party in _your_ honour!”

“I didn’t _ask_ for them to throw a party in my honour, did I?!”

“Three hours!” The shaking stopped and Hanamaki stooped down to level their gazes. “Three hours of mingling and giving thanks and then you can leave.”

She folded her arms across her chest.

“Who else is gonna be there?”

“It’ll mainly be Kodansha staff. The CEO might make an appearance if he got back from the US on time, A few other authors who are signed to us might be there.” He threaded a hand through his hair. “Its last minute, I know, but this is really important.”

It was true, she knew this was important. That statement had remained in her mind during her solitude.

She huffed. “Three hours?”

“Three hours.”

“You promise?”

He nodded.

“Of course. I’ll pay for your cab ride home as well.”

The writer frowned and pulled away from him, retreating as far as she could in the confines of the chair.

She had hoped that her silence and avoidance of Hanamaki would have given her more time to herself, more time to mull over everything that had lingered in her mind over the passing days.

There were some things Oe-sensei had said that had forced her to think – most of them subtle call-outs to character and her ideas – and his analysis of her being had made her wonder if she was being _too much_.

Oe Kenzaburo could read people as well as he could write about them, and she never considered the challenge of dancing around someone who was better at her than both avoiding and reading things.

(Name) knew that he knew she was torn between the ideal of what she wanted and the reality of what his appraisal meant. It was obvious, to her at least, in the way he talked about her book and her future... _especially_ about her future and direction of her life. She answered as vaguely as she could, but there was dissatisfaction in herself for not knowing the real answer.

Did she want to keep going? Was there a point in going forward? Where was the end of her line?

Going to this event meant acknowledging that fact. If she went tonight, it would confirm that she was okay with the way life was going, with the expansion of her career into uncharted, unknown territory.

(Name) wasn’t sure if she was ready.

Now or ever.

But Hanamaki was looking at her so earnestly and hopefully and oh God _he really can’t read the situation what the-_

Something deep within her compelled her to agree. A small voice echoed in her mind.

_What’s the worst that could happen?_

She sighed and slumped in her chair.

“Let’s get this over with then.”

He grinned and pulled her out of the chair.

“Oh good God, let’s get you ready, you look like shit – I mean, shittier than you normally do.”

The growl died in her throat as her editor lugged her down the hall from the study and into the bathroom.

Maybe she should have said no.

 

* * *

 

It had barely been five minutes after (Name) returned to her apartment when there was a knock against the entrance, demanding her immediate attention.

A part of her wanted to ignore it, to turn the lights off and slip into a slumber that she knew she deserved.

But progress was progress; and that meant _not_ being a Dick, even to random knocks on her door at 9 in the evening.

She stumbled into the genkan, kicking away the heels she had left across the tile properly into the shoe closet before she felt for the doorknob. Her hand found purchase and she turned it, throwing the door open while she tried to get her bearings.

“Yes?”

“Hey, hey, hey! Congratulations!”

(Name) winced at the volume, scratching the nape of her neck as she tried to adjust to her friend’s voice.

“Bo, it’s late, my neighbours are probably sleeping.” She held the door open with her hip, leaning into the cold wood.

The spiker was wearing a coffee coloured hoodie and light blue skinny jeans. In one hand he held a gift bag (with a shape that could only hold a bottle of wine), and in his other a white plastic one. Through the translucent confines, name spotted three boxes of food from a take away shop not too far from his apartment.

The writer completely forgot she had told him about the Oe Prize.

“But you won! We have to celebrate!” Bokuto argued, raising his arms up excitedly, goods in his bag waving around wildly and knocking into the man next to him.

(Name) blinked. She hadn’t even realised he was there.

The man was roughly the same height, with a pair of sleepy dark blue eyes and a full head of slightly curly black hair. He was toned and well dressed, and despite standing still she could tell he felt uncomfortable – if only but a little out of place. Their gazes locked, and before the writer could speak, the stranger beat her to it.

“You’re... (Surname) (Name), right?”

She shrugged. “That’s what I tell people, yeah.”

The dark-haired male turned to the wing spiker. “This is not happening right now...”

“Unfortunately it is. I understand though, there are better people you could’ve met.” The woman shrugged apologetically, and the younger man began shaking his head.

“No, I, uh, I didn’t mean-”

He coughed into his hand, avoiding the apathetic stare of the woman.

“It’s nice to meet you, (Surname)-sensei. My name is Akaashi Keiji. I’ve been a fan of your work since high school; I always expected something new in the Gunzo. Please excuse the intrusion-”

Akaashi bowed, forming a polite 90 degree angle with his body. Bokuto glanced at him and pouted, pulling him upright with a few free fingers.

“You can drop the ‘sensei’ thing Akaashi-san, I’ve heard it all night and I really don’t need it anymore.” She smiled, noticing the way the spiker’s pout formed into a proud grin. “It’s nice to meet you too Akaashi-san. Bokuto’s told me a lot about you.”

“C’mon Akaashi, see? She’s fine! This is the guy I was telling you about (Name)-chan – Akaashi Keiji! You remember the teammate I was telling you about, right? Look at him; he got all the ladies back in high school.”

A faint tinge of red appeared over Akaashi’s ears. _Maybe he didn’t get all the ladies_.

(Name) couldn’t help but laugh, both at Bokuto’s pride in his friend and in Akaashi’s slight embarrassment. “You can tell me all about it when you’re not yelling in the hall, Bo. You too Akaashi-san, I wanna hear all the dumb things this owl has done in high school.”

The youngest of the group smiled, stirring himself out of his stupor, seemingly stunned by the kindness radiating from her seemingly apathetic form. “We’ll be needing all night for that, (Surname)-san.”

She stepped aside, letting Akaashi pass first and then Bokuto close behind.

He held out the gift bag to her, and as she checked its contents she grinned. Inside was a dark green bottle, the label displaying it was an Italian brand. She wasn’t too familiar with it – while wine was steadying in popularity she would only ever drink it in formal occasions – but from the look of the bottle and the way Bokuto’s stare bore into her, she could tell it was a bit on the steeper side of beverages.

“You could have gotten me a case of beer and I would have been just as happy.”

His hair deflated. “It’s been a big week though... You won an award.”

She frowned, catching the way the insecurity creep up into his voice. She nudged his shoulder. “Thank you, Bo... You really didn’t have to do this though.”

Bokuto’s hair rose at her words. “Well of course I did, you won!”

(Name) sighed and ushered him further inside, hand placed firmly between his shoulder blades while she closed the door. “C’mon, don’t leave Akaashi-san to be awkward on his own.”

“He won’t be awkward after a few glasses of this, trust me.” He plucked the bag from her grasp before heading further up the hallway. “Glasses are in the top right cupboard.”

It wasn’t a question; he knew where everything was in her home.

She smiled and followed behind him, attempting to match his steady pace.

 

* * *

 

Akaashi left later that evening, a little closer to midnight, no longer stumbling over his words or sentences around the award winner. Bokuto’s assessment of the man being a talkative drunk was very much too, and it was all too amusing to watch him turn red from the fatigue. He had an early morning lecture followed by a lab session, and (Name) was never one to get in the way of an education.

And though the pretty setter tried to coax his friend out of the apartment, Bokuto stayed behind, complaining of timing and meeting and another day trip to somewhere she wasn’t sure of.

The pair had cleaned up most of her lounge room, the left over wine stopped and any leftovers Bokuto didn’t get were tucked away into her small refrigerator. (Name) stood at the sink, washing cutlery and porcelain plates while Bokuto sat on the counter behind her, waiting for her to finish her task. Every so often the back of his heels would thump against the wood in a steady rhythm.

 “You’ve got training in the morning, don’t you?” She inquired, scrubbing a plate from the remaining rice.

“We’ve got an hour of individual practice before the official session starts, I can miss it.”

She gasped jokingly. “You, miss training? What have you done with the real Bokuto Koutarou?”

Bokuto rolled his eyes, and for a moment the thumping ceased. The only sound that filled the apartment was the running water from the tap, slowly splashing against the stainless steel basin. She moved on to washing a small spoon.

“So you know how with other literature awards, the person gets like a watch or some prize money or a special pen blessed by the gods?”

(Name) let the spoon drop from between her fingers. The metal clanged against the bottom of the sink.

“Bo...”

“Well the Oe doesn’t have any of that stuff, right?”

“Bo, no.”

“It’s not much, but in my defence, you didn’t give me enough time to find you something.”

“Bokuto-”

“But you deserve it, y’know?”

(Name) turned around to face him, only to be met with the wing spiker standing less than half a metre away from her. She instinctively pressed herself against the lip of the sink. The words rattled in her mind.

“Bo you didn’t know me when I wrote that book.”

He inched forward. “But I’ve seen you work on this next one, and you put all of yourself into your work and you don’t get anything back and-”

He unfolded his hands from behind his back and held out a small yellow envelope to her.

“It really isn’t much, I only had a few days but, y’know, it’s something...”

The writer hesitantly dried her hands on her pants before taking the item out of his.

She opened it, and her body released a sigh of relief at the fact it wasn’t something insane like the awards he listed earlier.

Photos.

Dozens of them, all printed in different sizes and at different points over the past few months.

Some were of the two of them, forced selfies taken here and there in order to satiate the spiker’s urges. Most were of her; one in deep thought at home, one walking through Kyoto, one staring at a deer in Nara, another looking lovingly at a bowl of ramen.

The only similarity was the focus. Her.

She was happy.

“You don’t have photos up. At all. Not even nice ones of yourself.” He gestured with a murmur, waving at the barren walls and all that surrounded them. The only things that could be deemed personable were the collections of books on the shelves.

Most guests had a problem with the lack of personality in her home – but _she_ didn’t see a problem for the most part. The home had always been a functional thing rather than an emotional one.

(Name) looked up at him, gold meeting (e/c) before she felt her anxiety of the last few days finally fade away.

“I’m not much of a photo person.” She reminded him gently. He nodded and shifted his weight on his feet.

“I know but you should be, you’re beautiful.”

A smile adorned his face, and for a moment her heart skipped a beat.

She looked away, feeling her face flush. In an attempt to avoid the intensity of his stare, she leafed through the images, taking in every moment he had somehow captured of her.

“I have a free afternoon tomorrow, we can go shopping to get you some picture frames… or a photo album, y’know, if you don’t wanna put them up.”

Bokuto’s voice was right there, much closer than she had anticipated. Heat continued to course up through her neck and face. She nodded.

“Frames sound nice… Maybe an album since…” She held her hands up rather feebly, and Bokuto’s mouth dropped into an ‘o’.

“Yeah,” a hand went up to the back of his neck, “I did get a lot, huh?”

“S’fine.” She dismissed with a soft grin. “I missed 22 years of photos, might as well start now.”

He nodded eagerly. “That’s why I thought it’d be good gift, y’know?” He withdrew his hand and shrugged a little, leaning in slightly. “You just seem so stressed when you write... when you do _anything_ really. And, I dunno, I just thought it’d be nice if you could... I mean, I just think that...”

He trailed off, meeting her gaze once more. Instead of heat, a cold shiver ran down her spine and exited her body from her feet, the electric static sensation rooting her to the ground as it left her.

(Name) filled in the blanks.

_You deserve to see yourself happy._

In an instant there was no space between them, damp splotches on his back where her hands found purchase. Bokuto’s arms went up on instinct, unsure of what to do.

She...

_Did (Name) initiate a hug?_

Bokuto grinned and held her back, resting his chin on the crown of her head.

“Aw (Name)-chan what’s this? Not being mean anymore~ So tsundere~”

She didn’t answer verbally, merely hugging him tighter in response. He rubbed her back with his thumb, pressing down to work out the knot he felt in between her shoulder blades.

‘He’s too nice,’ she thought, pulling herself closer to him, ‘ _no one_ in the world is this nice of a person.’ 

“You free this weekend?”

Bokuto hummed in confirmation, the sound rumbling deep within his chest.

“Osaka, USJ, my treat.”

The spiker pulled away. “(Name) no-”

“It was your first stop for your travelling,” she argued, “You deserve to be just as happy as I can be.”

“I don’t want to be happy somewhere that makes you unhappy.” He shot back. She shrugged.

“I’ll be with you though, so...”

There was a moment of hesitation.

 

* * *

 

Was it bad that Oikawa was actively waiting for her?

Probably.

Was he starting to regret it?

You bet your ass he was.

It was interesting to see how things changed so quickly. After discovering Takeru in the writer’s care and the evening on the balcony, the routine had been established. They talked, only when darkness covered the sky and only when both were on the balcony. She brought the drinks, he brought his dazzling good looks, and the two would just stand (or sit on days when training was a little rough) and talk.

About nothing, mainly. Other days they would rant and rave, getting whatever frustrations clung to their chests. On those occasions it was Oikawa; he had quickly learnt Writer-chan was not one to openly talk unless she had been pushed to the edge, and that happened very rarely.

The sliding door to his left opened up, and he straightened out his back. He kept his eyes trained forward.

“You’re late.”

“I had company.” She answered, holding out a can of Kirin for him. He took it but still stared as the strange statement settled in his mind.

“You? Company?”

“Like you can talk.” The can opened with a hiss and her lips were already wrapped around the edge.

The silence surrounded them, a blanket pulling them closer together in the familiar manner they both grew accustomed to.

“Congratulations on the award.”

She turned her head, opening her mouth to inquire before she stopped herself. “Hanamaki.”

“He was telling _everyone_ about it.”

(Name) groaned. “He needs to stop, it’s been a week already, the hype is over.”

“He said it was announced at the beginning of the month.”

“And it’s the 10th; the hype is dead and gone.”

Oikawa frowned; that’s not how attention in any form worked, and from how Makki had raved the award in question was a _very_ big deal.

“Y’know, Makki said that you were happy for the first time in a while but...” Oikawa tapped his fingers against the side of his beverage. “If I’m honest you look as shit as you normally do.”

“Yeah well,” she shrugged half-heartedly, “Hanamaki’s never been one to properly read the mood, has he?”

No, he hadn’t.

While he was an intelligent and reliable wing spiker, Hanamaki Takahiro was completely deaf to other people’s emotions. (As Oikawa thought, that was probably why the Hopeless Couple™ remained that way.)

“Wanna talk about it?”

“Not really, no.”

“I’m not gonna understand it, huh?”

“That’s essentially the gist of it, yeah.”

“Is it gonna hurt you if you make me understand?”

(Name) was quiet. Oikawa knew what that meant – _probably_.

“Everything’s gonna change,” she started with an elongated sigh, “and I don’t want it to.”

“Huh?”

“When you win a big award, you get a lot of media attention and your next round of sales increases because of the exposure. Causation or correlation it doesn’t matter – your career takes off after a big award.”

Oikawa frowned. “But?”

“But I don’t want it to.” She groaned, running a hand through her hair. “Like, I am perfectly fine with never winning an award, never getting any acclaim, never really _being_ someone to anyone.”

He frowned, finally turning to address her. She remained forward, gaze averting from the sky to the drink in her hands. The wind blew; she smelled like red wine.

“The Illustrious (Surname) (Name) doesn’t want to be famous?”

She didn’t speak, and a chill ran through the springtime air. The setter tore his sight away from the horizon line and turned to his left.

Their gazes met, and Oikawa read between the lines of her emotions.

She _really_ didn’t want her fame.

He narrowed his eyes.

She thought she didn’t deserve it.

He coughed.

“What do you want to do?”

“Sleep.”

“That’s a very Mattsun answer.”

“How do you think we became friends?”

Oikawa shrugged dismissively and waited for her to continue. As serious as her answer seemed, it wasn’t the truth.

“I don’t know.” She admitted in what Oikawa could only think was a sheepish manner. “I can’t imagine myself without writing in my life but-”

“You can definitely see it without the attention.”

She nodded at his statement. “I can’t turn back anymore, at this point it would only destroy what little pride I’ve already been able to salvage.”

She turned around, suddenly unable to stay still – from nervousness, Oikawa wasn’t sure – but the restlessness forced her to rest her lower back against the edge, physically forcing her to face the barren wall opposite the beautiful skyline.

“It was just meant to be burnout, y’know?” She sighed, looking away and shaking her head in the same fluid movement. “I was just meant to be tired of _writing_. I didn’t think I’d be tired of… of _everything_.”

Oikawa felt his body seize up, and for once in a very long time the pain wasn’t in his knee but in his chest.

In his long two decades of existence, he had never grown tired of volleyball. He couldn’t. He had a natural compulsion to get better, and there was always the looming threat of competition. That was the nature of athletics – someone was always better if not by skill or natural talent – and that fact alone made it easier to push forward.

It seemed he had taken that for granted.

Not everyone could be that motivated in his or her fields.

And it made sense for someone like her, to give up that is. He hadn’t heard of anyone else from their age group who could rival her natural literary skills. Then again, he wasn’t a literature fanatic but that was beside the point. When you were well acclaimed, well dressed with titles and attention and sales, you would be well known in all walks of life. Someone was bound to know you.

Tobio could be pushed because _he_ was around but Writer-chan didn’t have that. There wasn’t a drive, a competitive atmosphere to surround her, to push her forward beyond the pain and agony that was failure. Then again, Oikawa wasn’t sure she even knew the failure that he was all too familiar with.

The look on her face combined with the distress in her voice screamed for help, for something to hold on to.

“I’m not the best person for advice-”

“Thanks Captain Obvious-”

“But if you want an opinion,” he glared slightly at her interjection, “then I say let it happen.”

The writer opened her mouth to snap, but she stopped herself, and Oikawa saw the breaks in her mind engage and force down whatever quip she was ready to deal out to him.

“As much as you hate your success, it’s gotta be pretty stable, right? Like, with your titles and your name someone is always bound to buy a book or whatever. Hypothetically speaking, you probably don’t need to write as much now that you’ve gotten this prize Like, that’s gotta increase sales a little. And yeah, you’ve never been about the money but it’s hard to do what you love and make a decent living. You said it yourself; you and me, we’re a couple of the lucky ones who get the best of both worlds.

“You can still write and not give a fuck about sales, but I don’t think there’s anything really wrong with wanting a compliment or two once in a while… And that’s what attention is for people like us – a compliment. People think they’re being nice, and sometimes they can be and sometimes they aren’t. There isn’t anything wrong with accepting that or even _wanting_ that – it doesn’t make you less humble or more of an ass either way. It’s human nature.

“And at the end of the day... I guess it really doesn’t matter if people give a shit about you or not, or what they say about you in general. You aren’t writing for them, you’re writing for _you_. So if you’re really off-put by what some people are saying then ignore them; don’t give someone the satisfaction of your attention when you have no reason to give it to them.”

The silence got warm for a moment before Oikawa heard the writer sigh. Her arms dropped to the side and her head dropped a little

“When did you get so wise? Did you get abducted without me knowing?”

He snorted, almost choking on the liquid he had poured into his mouth.

“Warn me next time you try to be funny, you dumbass.”

“Since when has that word been a part of your vocabulary? Did you _actually_ get abducted or something?”

Oikawa blinked, and then groaned after a moment of silence. “Oh no, I’ve become Iwa-chan.” The look of confusion that adorned the writer’s face didn’t go past the setter. “Iwaizumi, you met him… probably? Around April?”

There was a brief moment of contemplation before she hummed in confirmation. “I did; he’s the cute one, right?”

Oikawa gasped. “No Writer-chan! Iwa-chan is a gorilla; don’t be swayed by his false kindness!”

“You’re telling me he _wasn’t_ popular in high school?” She scoffed. “Liars never prosper, Limpy.”

“Oh please, how could he be popular when he was always near _me_?” He flipped his hair dramatically.

She blinked in boredom. “I don’t see it.”

The setter clutched his chest. “You wound me, Writer-chan.”

“Does he visit you often? When’s the next time he’s coming over?”

His grip tightened. “Really, I’m gonna need another month of rehab at this rate.

Her smile softened at the comment. “How’s the training going?”

“I haven’t fucked up yet.”

“I mean, that’s always a good thing.”

They lifted their cans in unison, a silent toast to the sentiment.

“What’s the go with Jakarta?”

He shrugged. “We’re working on it. It’s not a ‘no’.”

“It doesn’t seem like a ‘yes’ either.”

He glanced at her from the corner of his eye because yeah, he wasn’t a guaranteed player in the roster. He raised his drink again. It was a joke, a toast to the fact that he was probably fucked and needed to accept that.

She joined him, leaning over to let the aluminium clang together.

Oikawa leant on his left arm, swapping hands so that he could drink with his right and still rest his entire weight on the railing.

“You should enjoy it.”

“Hm?”

“Being a winner. Enjoy it.” He didn’t bother glancing at her again. “It’s nice while it lasts.”

(Name) nodded and sipped from her can. “Hard to be a winner when I’m a reclusive loser.”

Oikawa didn’t answer, but the statement resonated somewhere deep within him.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look at my pretty boy Akaashi making his full appearance and being sucha fanboy1 ngl I headcanon that's he's a literature buff - like have you guys imagined soft spoken, ethereal looking Akaashi Keiji whispering some Samuel Taylor Coleridge in your ear while you sit under the stars on a summer night?? No?? Just me?? Okay then~~
> 
> Tags are going to be updated before the next chapter is posted and will COMPLETELY SPOIL the direction of the story for, like, the rest of the thing. I mean it. Something big is going down and the shitstorm that is brewing is a big one. DO NOT look at the tags if you don't want spoilers. I mean it.
> 
> When I say 'be prepared' I mean 'BE PREPARED'! It's going down soon. And you can't hold me to any injuries you sustained.
> 
> Thank you for your comments and kudos, though!! Please keep the love going while I try to survive - and share the fic around with anyone you think would wanna read this since now is the best time to catch up with everything going on! We've reached half way, so here's hoping you all love the second half of the story too.


	16. The Special Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bokuto Koutarou was not a good man.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TAGS HAVE CHANGED AND SPOIL THE DIRECTION OF THE STORY! YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED.

_ May, 2018 _

One of the perks of being Bokuto Koutarou’s friend and teammate was that the ongoing exposure made it easier for a person to fathom the mystery that was his mood swings.

The downside, however, was that there was no guarantee that one would be able to _actively deal_ with him.

Unless, of course, you were Akaashi Keiji.

But in the case of Kuroo Testurou he wasn’t, and that made the situation he found himself in all the harder.

“Bro, you good?”

Kuroo knew it was a stupid question considering the fact the wing spiker was not, by any definition of the word, ‘good’. He had missed every spike Kageyama had set for him in the last half an hour of individual practice. His straights _and_ crosses weren’t as strong as they should have been. His receives were sloppy at best. He kept getting blocked by Kuroo in a one person block.

One could call it an off day – but considering the fact that a week ago the man had been at the top of his game, this was anything but.

Something wasn’t right, and it was obvious form the start of practice that this wasn’t an ordinary mood swing.

By this point, the bedhead would normally have Akaashi on the phone, ready to snap their friend out of his funk. But to his dismay, the right-hand man was busy with work for his final year of university. He, arguably, had more important things to worry about.

“It’s nothing, I’m fine.”

It was a lie, but Kuroo merely nodded. He wasn’t the pretty setter; he couldn’t call Bokuto out in the same way. He needed to catch him off guard, to do what he did best and coax the answer out of him without ever making him think he was prying.

Sure he was rusty; the last time he did this was with Oikawa and that went less than swimmingly, but this was Bokuto – an open book if he ever saw one.

“One of Japan’s top spiker’s has been getting blocked by a guy who isn’t even a starting player on Ryuujin Nippon.” He caught Bokuto flinch at the statement, and while it was designed to hurt him into talking, Kuroo couldn’t help but be hurt because _why wasn’t he even a starter_ -

“It’s nothing really.” Bokuto reiterated, waving him away as he tried to avoid his gaze.

Kuroo was right by his side, trying to catch whatever hints he could gain.

“Y’know I can’t not be worried about you, Bo. Especially when last week you seemed fine.” Kuroo admitted. “You gotta give me something to work with.”

The spiker tensed, and Kuroo took that moment to lead him to the nearby bench.

He needed to isolate him, needed to try and get whatever was wrong out into the air.

They couldn’t have him like this in the lead up to Jakarta.

Kuroo couldn’t stand to see his best friend so sad.

This was for both of them.

He needed answers.

 

* * *

 

_ March, 2018 _

Bokuto first noticed something wrong after they met on the day of their graduations.

He had almost missed his own graduation in order to meet her, and the past version of himself would have chastised him because of it.

But these days Present Bokuto didn’t care; Past Bokuto didn’t know the life he lived and how much happier he had become.

Sure, he had been standing in the sweltering heat in a suit waiting for her to reveal herself to him. And sure, he had carried that bouquet of flowers all the way from his apartment like an idiot because he was too excited about the plan.

But he was happy, and the look on (Name)’s face had been entirely worth it.

She had been happy, almost pleased to have his presence around her in her time of isolation. (Name), even if she didn’t admit it, had come to enjoy having him around, and it would have been a lie for Bokuto to deny that he didn’t like being around her either.

And turning down her offer for dinner was disappointing. It had always been his luck to be busy when (Name) actively invited him out; and while she never seem perturbed by his denial, he couldn’t help but feel guilty.

(Name) had told him to go, and though he wanted to stay with her for the night he was compelled to listen to her.

So he went. And he was glad that he did.

The Grad Party had been fun, which he anticipated since the boys had been hyping it up for weeks. He had always been the life of the party on campus and his last stint in university had been no exception.

It was well beyond midnight when Bokuto found himself on the balcony connected to the hotel ballroom the Graduating Class had rented out. He had lost the boys a long time ago, probably drinking their hearts out while they still had the chance. He had made his rounds alone, not wanting to draw Kuroo or Oikawa away from their fun, and definitely had way too much to drink.

“Bokuto-tan.”

The monochromatic-haired male stood up straighter at the voice, turning to greet the new presence.

He had completely forgotten to greet her.

“Nana-chan, nice to see you.  Congrats on graduating.”

“Same goes for you, Bo.”

Nana was pretty, there was no denying that, with legs that went on for miles and a slender build that made him seem much larger than he was and eyes that screamed _want you_ and _need you bad_.

It had been no secret that she was into the Chuo Ace – and throughout their four years together at university the two had a playful back and forth that was a constant ‘will they won’t they’.

Well, that was until recent months of course.

“Bokuto-tan, we haven’t talked in a while~” She whined, sauntering over with confident steps. “You look so handsome in that suit, did you get it tailor made?”

He tugged the sleeves of his dress shirt, jacket left at Takeo’s place in preparation for the long night. “No it wasn’t – I just got lucky.”

“Well you’d make _anything_ look good – loose or well fitting.”

The spiker laughed before he continued to sip at the drink in his hand. Nana leaned into his body, brushing their shoulders and forearms together thanks to the close proximity.

“Where is the rest of the team?”

He shrugged. “They’re around – we all need a break from each other sometimes.”

Nana raised her brow, “Then did you want to get out of here?”

Bokuto paused for a moment.

Their conversations, though always borderline flirtatious, had been genial enough. This one in particular had been awkward, more awkward than he thought possible.

Now that he thought about it, talking to _any_ of the women in his cohort had become more uncomfortable than they usually had been.

And as the request and all its underlying meanings settled in his mind, he felt his throat dry up.

Past Bokuto would have been stoked at the request; years of tension and back and forth leading up to this moment.

But Present Bokuto was anything but.

He swallowed the lump in his throat, standing up a little straighter – if that were even possible.

“I think I’ll take a rain check Nana, maybe next time.”

And then he was gone, pulling away from Chuo’s Popular Girl before he disappeared back into the crowded ballroom.

There was pull in his chest somewhere, and for a moment he couldn’t figure out where it led.

And then he saw a familiar flash of (h/c) and a laugh of genuine gratitude.

Something sour ebbed at the thought of talking to Nana, and it soon faded away when warmth overtook him.

That, he thought, was not normal.

 

* * *

 

_ April, 2018 _

The thing about (Surname) (Name) was that her trust was hard to gain, and very easy to lose.

So Bokuto sought to do everything in his power to right the wrong of his mistake that evening.

Sure, he had said that he was going to let her decide – to do what she willed with the ball on her side – but that had gotten him nowhere.

(Name) had given him the bare minimum; Hanamaki had mistakenly let her father into her home, and the encounter that followed had left the writer shaken and angry and unresponsive in ways that only made Bokuto even more disappointed in himself.

He should have been there for it, and even though he was there to pick up the pieces it wasn’t enough to satiate the feeling of guilt that had settled in his gut.

There was only one way to reconcile with her, and it ended with him standing outside her apartment very early in the morning on the next Tuesday, a small suitcase at his feet and a coffee in his hand.

(Name) had, surprisingly, answered the door, and then immediately went to close it on him.

He shoved his foot in between the barrier, yelping when the wood made contact.

“Oh shit, are you okay?” (Name)’s voice as monotone, though the spiker could sense a bit of distress in her tone. He nodded, hissing through the pain that coursed through his dominant leg.

“Fine, just...” He exhaled deeply. “Good morning, are you ready?”

She blinked. “For what?”

“Our mini-holiday.”

“Bokuto I hate travelling.” She deadpanned.

“You already agreed to it last weekend.” He retorted. She scoffed.

“I withdraw my sentiment.”

“You can’t; the binding promise of Our Friendship means that we uphold any promises we make to each other even if they are not declared to be such.

The writer frowned. “Bo.”

_She hadn’t called him that in a few days._

“I don’t want you staying alone in your apartment.” He admitted sternly. The shorter female folded her arms.

“It’s warm and comfortable-”

“And is a few hours away from being a personal hell and you don’t deserve that.” Bokuto finished for her, all mirth and humour dissipating from his very being. He looked around and lowered his voice a bit more. “I care, (Name)... And I probably don’t deserve your trust after what happened when I wasn’t there for you but that doesn’t mean I don’t _want it_. I _want_ you to trust that I will be there because I care about you and your wellbeing and-”

He sighed.

“You don’t have to hide things from me and pretend you’re okay when you’re not. You don’t have to hide away from me, ever, I promise.”

Bokuto held out the coffee in its plain blue and white container. She took it, hesitantly.

“You said you weren’t one for the Cherry Blossom Festival.”

“It’s the same every year. The only difference is how much you drink during it.” She scoffed.

“There’s this moss that blooms every year in Chichibu in the Saitama Prefecture; it’s a little more low-key than the Cherry Blossom Festival, and it’s far away from here... And its bright pink, so it’s like you’re watching the blossoms along the river like you normally would.”

The writer dropped her gaze, he stooped to try and meet it.

“I got us a room out there for a few days... Travelling sucks if you don’t have someone to go with.” He rested his hand on the door frame, bracing himself through the pain that still lingered through his foot and up his ankle and calf.

(Name) brought the coffee to her lips and took a long, slow sip.

As she pulled it away, Bokuto saw her hands shake. “Two days?”

He nodded.

“What if I wanted to stay longer...?”

The spiker blinked, mind running a mile a minute as he tried to decipher the  question she posed.

“As long as you need.”

“You only have two days off.”

“Adventures are more fun with someone else.”

 _I’d do anything for you, how do you not get this_?

And then she looked up, a weak smile on her face. It still made his body heat up.

His heart thumped erratically against his ribcage, and then the warmth cycled through his bloodstream, making him dizzy with something he couldn’t recognise.

“I’ll pack my bag.” She announced, holding the door open and allowing Bokuto to re-enter the apartment.

After he passed through the boundary of the genkan and shut the door, he looked back to her retreating form.

(Name) glanced over her shoulder and grinned, a silent thanks that she meant from the deepest part of her body.

It made his heart beat even faster.

 

* * *

 

Bokuto felt _that feeling_ once again; just before (Name) won the Oe Prize, a few days after her unfortunate encounter with her old man.

They had fallen into a comfortable routine since then, one that Bokuto appreciated greatly. While he bounced around between training sessions for Ryuujin Nippon and Tokyo FC, (Name) offered him moments of peace away from volleyball – something he never thought he needed until they stumbled upon each other.

And, in return for her company, Bokuto would take her away from all her troubles in Tokyo and beyond, trying whatever he could to make her (e/c) eyes burn with something one could consider an emotion.

With the amount of time away he accumulated per week, the activities only varied from dinner to movies to trips to nearby prefectures. Though he knew (Name) hated travelling, he found he could at least coax her away for a few hours at a time, a weekend if he was lucky. Chichibu had been a good starting point, and soon they found themselves travelling further and further.

Kyoto had been good, filled with history for (Name) and wild deer for Bo. Their furthest trip away to date had been a three-day trip in the middle of the month to Hokkaido, something the spiker had coaxed the woman into agreeing to.

It was all a part of his plan, he told Akaashi, that if he were able to show her that _he_ could confront a place of pain (albeit smaller in dose than hers) then maybe she could do so as well. In time, of course, all things took time.

Though he wasn’t too sure if it worked, he was sure that (Name) enjoyed the journey and his company. She had to; she spent three days with him.

So there existed the unspoken, mutual agreement between them, one that had arisen and developed well beyond that night on the balcony. Everything had been perfect after their much needed reconciliation.

It was just this _feeling_ that was unsettling.

The weird warmth that clung to every fibre of his being and made his heart race a little more than it normally would.

That day had started off as they normally did; a rare occasion where he could successfully drag the recluse out of the house in broad daylight at the last minute. It had been his fault entirely, promising to take her out for a lunch when he had already agreed to show up to an extra training session with his new setter at Tokyo FC.

(Name) had begrudgingly agreed to meet him at the Tokyo Gas Gymnasium in the Koutou Ward so that he could go straight from morning practice to lunch with her.

By the time she had gotten there, his setter had left him to clean up the volleyballs by himself – a part of the arrangement he had forgotten he had made.

“Need help Hot-Shot?”

“I don’t want you to get too tired, God knows your immune system can’t handle the external pressure.”

A ball was thrown in his direction, but he easily dodged it as he stooped to pick up another blue and yellow ball.

They cleaned together, (Name) wordlessly helping by throwing balls at him while he made quips about her health. The job was done much faster than he could of done alone, and when all but one ball was left, a bright idea popped into his mind.

“You wanna try something?”

“Nothing that follows that sentence can be good.”

“You taught me a lot about books and stuff, I think it’s only fair I teach you how to play volleyball.”

“No thanks, seems tiring.”

“What if it was just serving? Serving is the easy bit!”

“Bo, I am only athletic enough for people to think I can do the bare minimum, which is still not a lot,” she answered, which only made him whine more.

“Anyone can serve (Name), and trust me if _I_ can do it then _you_ can do it.”

She blinked at him.

“Haven’t you been playing volleyball since you were a kid?”

“That’s besides the point! Now come here and let me teach you how to serve!”

She laughed at him. (Name) had a tendency to do that, he noticed. It wasn’t vicious or out of spite, but enjoyment, out of sheer mutual amusement at something he had said.

Well maybe not in this case since he was sure she was laughing at him pout but that meant nothing really.

In a heartbeat, Bokuto had a hold on (Name), eagerly explaining the types of serves and the way they changed the tempo of the match. She nodded along, admittedly not as eagerly, but enough to show that yes she was listening and yes she cared about what he was saying.

As he begun to explain the standard standing serve, he adjusted his stance and smacked the ball up over the net. It bounced into the vanguard box, where the setter would be to get the first touch. She clapped.

“Fantastic, I expected nothing less from a National Player.”

“C’mon, (Name)-chan, you’ll be great, I know it!”

He pulled her along by the wrist, positioning her in front of him.

“Widened your stance a little,” he kicked her feet a little to make his point, “and then just centre your gravity. Hold the ball in this hand and then raise your arm like this.”

He moved each limb bit by bit, making sure every angle was poised and perfect in the way he had been taught over his years of experience.

“And then you hit the ball, but as you hit it, you want to shift your weight from your core, like this-”

The feeling of her waist beneath his palms was different.

Different but nice.

Her body heat prickled at his skin, sent ripples of something electric up his spine at the contact.

He wasn’t sure if she felt it too, but it took everything in his power not to shy away from her body. Bokuto rolled his hips along with hers, and he kept his eyes trained on the back of her head and neck as she lifted the ball and followed through with her other palm to hit it.

The ball soared through the air, over the net and landed just barely inside the backline boundary.

Bokuto cheered, letting his arms wind around her in a hug as he overzealously celebrated the success. His cheek pressed against hers, and he felt her laugh course through his body.

The electricity continued to fizzle in his bones until later that day throughout their lunch meeting.

He was sure the strange feeling only intensified.

 

* * *

 

_ May, 2018 _

Bokuto woke up with a start, chest heavy and a sheen layer of sweat coating the bare skin of his chest. The world was quiet, save for his shallow and laboured breathing that echoed around him.

His ears rang, and the sound of silence shook him to his core.

He glanced around furiously, eyes darting from body to body that lay on the floor around him.

Training Camp. Ryuujin Nippon Training Camp.

That explained the unfamiliar territory, not so much his body because-

What was that?

What the _fuck_ did he just dream about?

There were blurs in his mind, faint figures that he could barely make out through the haziness of his vision. It was unsettling; normally Bokuto could remember his dreams vividly but tonight there was a filter in front of his memories.

It was grainy and static, and he didn’t like not knowing. As he adjusted his legs, he couldn’t help but pause at the sudden intrusion of a familiar sticky sensation.

The owlish male lifted up his sheet off of his legs and-

“Shit…” He hissed quietly collapsing back on to his futon, now very aware of how uncomfortable his lower half was.

This couldn’t be happening.

Not at a _fucking camp_.

There was a flash of light behind his eyes, and Bokuto caught sight of flesh under his own large hands.

Pinpricks of something danced across his skin, and as he closed his eyes he saw a face, a mop of hair, and flushed cheeks that complimented heavy lidded eyes.

He was covered in velvet, engulfed by a heat that was both pleasant and alarming. His hands found purchase on a set of hips and his fingers pressed deep bruises into the skin, nails forming crescent indentations that were close to drawing blood.

The ringing from the silence faded away, just enough until he heard a voice echo in his mind – breathy and gasping for air.

_“Bo...”_

His leg twitched, his hips jerked.

And all at once it came back to him.

‘Oh fuck…’ He thought.

He hadn’t experienced a dream like that since high school, and even then he had never-

The wing spiker ran a hand over his face and then threaded it through his hair. It was damp, slick with whatever sweat had developed on his forehead in the midst of him tossing and turning.

He slowed his breathing, piecing together the scenes of his dreams because there was _no way_ that had actually happened.

Nope. Not a chance in hell.

This is not what that feeling was; there was no way this was happening to him since he was a functioning adult within society who didn’t need this, who didn’t have to act this way.

Bokuto Koutarou did not have a wet dream – _and cum like a virgin_ – about (Surname) (Name).

 

* * *

 

For what it was worth, Bokuto had been able to pretend all was well around the writer when he returned from the camp. Granted, they hadn’t met at all since his return, but he was holding strong against the onslaught of his intrusive thoughts and _the dream_.

He thought he could maintain it, could withstand whatever twist and turn life decided to throw at him.

But his façade came crashing down around him when (Name) had texted him excitedly (at least what he _assumed_ to be excitedly; it was hard to tell with someone as usually apathetic as (Name)-chan) that she won the Oe Prize.

After a quick Google search and scour a few Wikipedia pages, Bokuto had congratulated her; caps lock, emoticons and voice message for all.

And it should have ended there.

But it didn’t.

Of course it didn’t.

It ended with him holding a bottle of relatively priced wine in one hand, a bag of take out in his other, and a very sleep deprived friend standing by his side.

“Bokuto-san, I know I accepted your invitation but I didn’t realise I was imposing upon a more intimate affair.” Akaashi deadpanned, fiddling with his fingers as they exited the elevator.

“You aren’t! I just figured you’d wanna meet one of my other friends and all. It’s one big surprise!”

“Not everyone likes surprises.”

“I know that!”

“Does this friend like surprises?”

“Not really, no.”

Akaashi exhaled deeply. In high school he would have made an attempt to hide his discomfort, but he was an adult operating on three hours of sleep; he _earned_ this right.

“I trust your judgement Bokuto-san.” The dark haired setter relented; rubbing what little sleep remained in his eyes from his earlier nap.

He meant it; though he was a simpleton, Bokuto had good judgement in people who he befriended. He was a good man who only did what he felt was right and, unsurprisingly, his actions often made things better.

And a part of the setter couldn’t help but think that maybe this was what Pain-in-the-Ass Kuroo-san had been talking about when he called him earlier that year.

(“He’s met this girl,” he had said, “and they’ve gotten pretty close. He spends more time with her than he does me, and I didn’t even think that was possible.”

“Have you met her?”

“The only person who I know that knows she is real is Oikawa, and that’s because they’re neighbours and I’m pretty sure he hates her.”

Akaashi sighed. “So then what’s your concern?”

“Is it possible for things to be _too good_ for Bokuto?”)

The pair arrived at the door and without a word of warning or any form of introduction, Bokuto slammed his fist against the cold wood, startling the ex-Fukurodani setter out of his daze.

The door swung open, and a chorus “Hey, hey, hey” had been announced in typical Bokuto fashion.

And when Bokuto’s gaze fully landed on her form, he felt his heart stop and his mind go blank.

She looked beautiful; and he hadn’t even seen her in a few days. Was it even possible to look so ethereal without even trying?

 _No, Bokuto, don’t fuck this up_.

He tried to keep his cool – though his instincts in keeping close to her didn’t exactly help his whole ‘Play It Cool’ plan he had going on.

And he had played it cool, thanks to the fact that Akaashi was a Wine Mum™ if he had ever seen. (Name) let herself be swept away in the conversation and stories Akaashi had been willing to share, giving Bokuto enough time to calm down and relax.

This was like any other night, he told himself, and there was no reason to be freaked out over whatever they were because of some dream. Dreams were dreams – pretend, no real rhyme or reason.

He could live through it.

He totally didn’t imagine them having sex.

Not at all.

And he kept the denial going for the rest of the night, and when they finally were alone he felt all his confidence slip away.

His present had made her smile, made her soft, and in his moment of weakness he saw her dishevelled face from his dream once more. He tried everything to remain calm, to remember that they were friends and nothing more.

She was asking him to go to Osaka with her.                  

His plan worked, much better than he anticipated.

There was a moment of hesitation.

And then Bokuto shook his head.

He couldn’t do this, not yet.

“Next month… I have a four-day weekend next month. We can go then.”

(Name) deflated if but for a moment, but smiled and nodded.

“I’m holding you to that.”

He grinned and shrugged, “As long as you’re paying.”

She laughed at his statement, the sound tinkling in his eyes and sending his heart on fire.

His heart tugged and the warmth that had settled in his body started to grow hotter, slowly becoming a raging fire.

 _Oh God, I need to not do this_.

 

* * *

  

His form was crumbling from the stress.

For someone who had pledged to avoid the reason his stress as much as he could, Bokuto sure enjoyed being in very close proximity to (Name).

That day had been entirely spontaneous.

He had moved entirely on instinct, he told himself, he had come to see Oikawa to ask him if he was willing to set for him during the next Ryuujin Nippon practice and – instead – got distracted by the door that came before his.

He definitely did not run up fourteen flights of stairs to her door because the elevator took too long. He definitely did not get excited when he discovered she was actually home that evening.

He did not miss her, not at all, not when the last time they saw each other was less than a week prior.

And even if he did miss her, he argued, it would only be because he was leaving Japan during the summer. Leaving meant finding a new groove, getting out of the routine they had carved together. Leaving meant he was risking losing the progress they had forged together over the past month.

His days – now that he was free from university – felt off if he didn’t see (Name), if he didn’t go to the other end of Mejirodai to make to make sure she had eaten something that day.

But there he was, going against the rules and boundaries he had put into place, lounging on her couch with soft music playing in the background while she sat at the kotatsu writing something.

That was the most common scene for them, and though Bokuto had always been an energetic person he didn’t mind slowing it down for her.

“Fucking Christ.”

The writer dropped her head down on to the table, the stationery jumping at the sudden action.

He never really asked about her work. But he would always, _always_ ask about her. “You alright?”

She didn’t answer with words, instead choosing to growl in what could only be described as frustration.

Bokuto swung his legs over the edge of the couch, peering over the writer’s head to try and see the paper her body was obscuring. “Hey, you can talk to me.”

(Name)’s boy flopped backwards, her shoulder blades resting against his calves while her head titled to the side to rest against his knee.

“It doesn’t sound right.” She admitted, and Bokuto felt his eyes widened in surprise.

From the other times he had been around to watch her write, (Name) was never stumped when it came to writing.

Motivation, maybe, but when she found the inspiration she took off and never once looked back.

This was new.

This was worrying.

“Maybe that’s because you’ve been writing and reading the same poem for the entire day.” He mused, and she exhaled in response. “Lemme read it.”

She laughed, and Bokuto swore his heart skipped a beat at how happy she sounded.

“I mean it! I took units of creative writing _and_ literature in second year, and not to brag but I did pretty well in them!”

He didn’t; he had barely scraped by in his final exams in both courses by some random miracle from his ancestors.

But she didn’t have to know that, and if lying meant he could get a sneak preview of what was probably another best selling work then who was he to judge the mechanics of their relationship – _friendship_ , not relationship.

“It’s…” She faltered. “This one’s the really important…” Her confession made Bokuto tilt his head.

“Isn’t everything you write really important?”

Her hesitance faded if but for a moment at the sound of his confusion. It returned just as quickly.

“This is the one that is going to be the first poem in the anthology…”

The writer gestured to the mess of papers before her.

“Can’t you just put one of the other ones at the front?”

She shook her head, and for a moment Bokuto swore her eyes glazed over.

“You know when you can feel a good spike?” He nodded, and she tapped the paper. “ _This_ is my good spike.”

He pouted, still staring down at her. It’s not like this behaviour was out of the ordinary – (Name) rarely let him read her works-in-progress because of the personal nature – but this was a strange vulnerability he was not used to.

“Then let me see this great spike of yours, Ace.” He prodded, watching the hesitation appear on her face.

Silence followed.

And then she lifted the two A4 pieces of paper up and held it out to him for the spiker to take into his own hands.

He dragged his gaze away from her and let it rest at the top of the page, taking in the working title for her draft.

The faint piano acted as the backdrop of his very first reading, and the music fit the rise and fall of each stanza, punctuating each sentence as if it were made for her words. His mouth dried up, as if all the moisture in the air and his body evaporated in the spring air, and soon the music was drowned out by the sound of the blood thumping in his eardrums.

Minutes passed, hell hours could have passed for all he knew, but the spiker was entranced by her words, and it was only then that he realised why people were willing to call her the things she was called.

Her words were beautiful, and evoked every emotion he had locked away for weeks with minimal effort.

She spoke to the soul, spoke to the common man – and understood them.

Bokuto froze as he finished reading both pages of the poem, his gaze lingering on each harsh scribble and blot of ink that erased the presence of a string of words.

He wanted to know what they said.

The words he could read, however, were intimate, tender, enough to keep his own curiosity satiated for a mere moment because what if this was him?

What if she was feeling everything he was feeling too?

And the questions solidified and became statements.

This _was_ him.

 _This was about him_.

_ She was feeling everything he was feeling too.  _

The dam of his emotions broke in the same moment of realisation, and there was no restraint left in the spiker’s body.

With his free hand he grasped her chin lightly, making her turn to the left before he ducked down and kissed her, eyes clamped shut.

It was sudden and fast and earnest and real – so, so real – and Bokuto could not think of anything else but _her_.

The electricity he had been feeling for weeks finally made sense, coursing through his veins with a vengeance as he kept their lips locked tight.

Seconds past and turned to minutes of silence, of Bokuto waiting for something else. He wouldn’t press further, not unless (Name) moved as well-

His mind drew a blank as her lips moved for a fraction of a second. And then again, slowly moving in rhythm with the pace he set.

She was reciprocating.

Her mouth was _moving_.

Actually _moving_ and –

Bokuto’s fingers moved to cup her cheek, pressing his lips against hers harder as he continued to take in this moment.

She responded t his eagerness, continuing to kiss him as if it were so natural, so normal to do.

(Name) enjoyed slowing things down, and there was a tenderness to her affections that oddly fit with who he realised she was. In the same way she enjoyed slowing down her life and savouring the moments she found herself in, (Name) wanted to prolong affection she shared – perhaps a side effect of the life before he existed in it, Bokuto wasn’t sure – but he wasn’t one to be picky.

He always took what he could get with her.

He pulled her up by the hand, the same way he did whenever he wanted to dance with her, and spun her around. He rested both hands on her hips and slowly guided her down so her legs were straddled across his lap.

Their lips were still locked in kiss, all tongue and teeth and it was too, too much for Bokuto. Kissing her, being able to hold her, was as natural as breathing.

The warmth that he had become accustomed to turned into fire that spread up and down his body as he continued to let his hands roam across the expanse of her body, mapping every crevice of her uncharted territory.

This was so much better than his dream; nothing could top the reality that was sitting in front of him (or on top of him, which was way better than the dream as well).

“I think I’ve fallen in love with you.”

The words left his mouth faster than he could stop them, and with them came the reality that he had been trying to avoid.

A firm statement; not a breathy whisper. It was as if his subconscious knew about the idea of them all along.

And while he should have been scared at what just left his lips, he wasn’t. He was happy at the revelation. This was normal – this was what needed to happen; it was _their_ end goal together.

Bokuto Koutarou was in love with (Surname) (Name).

He couldn’t deny it any longer.

He could feel his heart thundering against his ribcage as he waited, waited with baited breath for her answer – hell, he determined that he didn’t mind the thought of waiting for her like he always did.

But their silence carried on, and on, Bokuto felt his heart stop all at once.

Something flashed behind the (e/c) orbs.

That was all he needed.

She didn’t love him back.

And as the words he had read played over and over and over in his mind, he knew why.

It wasn’t the same for her.

“Fucking damn it…” He sighed, letting his head drop in defeat. “I’m so stupid.”

The (h/c)-haired woman pulled him in closer, resting her chin atop his head while the two-toned male rested his forehead in the dip of her sternum.

She knew what he was feeling.

Love was one of the horrible emotions that plagued existence; she determined that from her youth.

The earnest struggle for affection, for reciprocation of emotion, was something she had known her whole life. Love, in all its ugly forms, had often led her down a path of tragedy, a path most do not travel.

For as long as she could recall, (Name) had always been the one left high and dry. It was in her nature.

The only love she never really knew was familial; her father’s lack of reciprocation only heightened the idea of being Alone Forever. By extension, love flittered away from her reality.

But (Name) fought through, though, and came to terms during her adolescence with the idea that maybe that it wasn’t for her. Maybe love really didn’t mean much. She could live with being rejected, and never being the rejecter.

But now?

It wasn’t any easier being the one who was fawned over. If anything it was worse, especially with her knowledge and her weakness for this man holing her so, _so_ tight.

“I’m sorry…”

His pulse hastened, she felt it under the palm of her right hand that still cupped his neck, and then he broke.

The words had shattered the final shard of whatever they could be.

Her grip tightened around him as she felt his tears drop on to her shirt, leaving wet patches in their wake.

(Name) moved so her cheek rested against the crown of his head and exhaled softly, slowly.

Her heart hurt, more than it did when Makoto left her high and dry.

The presence of Bokuto Koutarou was more prominent than the one Fuyutsuki Makoto ever created, and suddenly the guilt of not truly understanding him washed over every inch of her body.

Her apology wasn’t one where the feelings weren’t mutual.

She loved him, in some small fraction.

But she couldn’t find it in herself to reciprocate.

She felt Bokuto open his mouth against her, his once erratic breathing becoming a little steadier.

“Why does this feel like the end?”

Because there isn’t a remedy for unrequited love.

Because now there would be an unruly tension that tagged along in their lives.

Because some stories aren’t meant to intertwine, ever.

Sometimes they run side by side into infinity, never actually meeting. And maybe that was them. Maybe.

“It’s not,” she answered – pleaded, affirmed, _hoped_ – because in no way did she really want this to end, “I’m just… sorry.”

“Don’t leave me.” He begged.

“I won’t.” She promised.

And with that his form slumped into her front, arms still wrapped around her like a vice but his torso lax and loose.

She meant it.

Bokuto knew she meant it.

But it did not help put his mind at ease because no matter what happened to them _he still wanted her_.

Was it selfish?

Of course it was – but he had always been a little selfless so maybe it was okay to still _want_ something for himself time to time; even if that something was a person he really couldn’t have.

But there would be a future for them in another lifetime, he determined. If she was ready to give what was left of her heart away then he would have a chance, would live in a reality that didn’t break his heart into pieces. And that was a comforting thought.

But in that moment, he didn’t want to imagine that perfect lifetime. He didn’t want to know that some other version of himself was happy and holding the woman he had fallen in love with. He didn’t want to know he got the short end of the stick.

He wanted to be that life, he wanted the best.

_You’re too good to me, Bo._

Bokuto pulled his head from her chest, summing the last of his strength to do so, and craned his up to his. He leant forward with vigour, making sure his lips met firmly. His heart thumped just as rapidly during that kiss as it did in their first.

Bokuto Koutarou was not a good man.

He was selfish.

He was lonely.

He was in love with (Surname) (Name) and he didn’t care about anyone else anymore.

He coaxed her mouth open, letting his tongue invade and swipe over every inch of hers as if engraving it into his memory. He let his fingers press tighter into her skin; he wanted to leave his mark, leave one of the many parts of him with her in exchange for whatever she was willing to give him. He’d take something – anything – if it meant being with her. He pushed her down, down, down, until he heard the soft fwhap of her shoulders and back against the couch, until he was on top of her, until he was the only thing she could focus on.

If this was the first and last time he would ever hold her like this then he would do what he could, would do what his subconscious had been telling him to do for days at a time.

All (Name) needed to do was indulge him one more time, and then he could try to move on.

The ball was on her side of the net.

Just as it always had been.

 

* * *

 

_ Present _

“Bo? You in there bud?”

Kuroo’s hand waved in front of his face, the wing spiker blinking out of the daze.

“Huh?”

“You zoned out for like a good five minutes, are you sure you’re okay?” The bedhead couldn’t hide his concern, and Bokuto suddenly felt the weight of the world on his shoulders.

He looked around. He was no longer in the writer’s apartment; instead he was in the gymnasium, sat alongside Kuroo on a bench. His breathing erratic, they had just finished practice and he had been out of it entirely.

“Are you gonna tell me what’s up?”

He shrugged. “Not worth it.”

“We’re best friends, Kou,” Kuroo tugged the muscular male down beside him on the bench. “You’re meant to talk to me about anything bothering you, and something is bothering you.”

He placed his palm on his thigh, squeezing the hard muscle to show he was there, ready for whatever truth his friend had to give him.

“I got rejected.”

It was a simple answer, a more straightforward one than _‘I fell in love with the perfect girl but she reject me; except it wasn’t a rejection because I know she loves me back in some way and I don’t know how to show her that she does and now I hate life because she was my everything’_.

The statement was all Kuroo got, but it seemed it was all he needed as he nodded in understanding.

Bokuto had been rejected by girls before, sure, but he had never sunk this low.

“Did she lead you on?”

The spiker shook his head angrily, as if the question was the most insane thing he had heard all day. “She wouldn’t – she _didn’t_ … I guess I just led myself on thinking…” He rubbed his eyes, trying to push back that tears that were forming. “Fuck, I’m just hopeless for her y’know? I’d do anything for her.”

Kuroo blinked. “Is this the same girl you’ve been with for the past few months?”

Bokuto nodded. Kuroo’s grip on his thigh tightened.

“Oikawa’s neighbour?”

Bokuto nodded again. Kuroo tried to mask his exhale of disappointment. A part of him couldn’t help but wonder if this was all Oikawa’s doing – but he knew the setter was better than that; the brunet would head the warning he gave him all those months ago.

“You really liked her, huh?”

“I’m so in love with her, bro.”

The words barrelled past him faster than he could register and – Bokuto, in love? With something other than volleyball?

“I just want her to be happy, right?” Bokuto groaned, running a hand through his damp hair. “I want her to see the woman who _everyone_ else sees – who _I_ see- and to be happy… And I thought she was happy with me – fuck she even said it herself! And suddenly I’m wrong? Like, as if it was a lie or something… But I know she loves me, even if it’s just a little and I…”

He trailed off, and Kuroo moved his hand from the spiker’s thigh to his shoulders, pulling him closer into a side hug.

“I’m sorry man, that’s rough…” He pressed his thumb into the bone, rubbing roughly because this was not a Bokuto he was used to, nor one he thought he could handle.

“It’s fine bro, I’ll get over it.” The two-toned male sighed reluctantly, dropping his head down. Kuroo shook his head.

“You’re allowed to be upset over this, Kou. There is nothing wrong with being sad about a rejected confession.” Kuroo ducked so he could get a better look at the spiker’s face. “Look man, you can bounce back from this, I promise.”

There was a flash of something in his best friend’s eyes that made Kuroo freeze. He almost didn’t recognise the emotion, and the fact it appeared made Kuroo’s stomach drop.

Guilt.

Bokuto brushed the middle blocker’s hand away and stood up.

“I’m gonna head home first bro… Thanks.”

The sound of Bokuto’s shoes squeaking against the floor echoed around the bedhead until he was gone. Kuroo blinked a few times before settling his hands on his knees, head cocked to the side.

He was definitely going to need Akaashi’s help on this one.

 

* * *

 

“They fucked!”

Akaashi pinched the bridge of his nose sighing through the receiver and making it loud enough for the older male on the other end of the line to hear.

“I think you’re over reacting Kuroo-san; that just doesn’t sound like something he would do-”

“You didn’t see him! He’s completely out of it; this wasn’t like the other times he’s been rejected!” Kuroo interjected angrily. Akaashi could practically see how the cattish male was floundering. “Look he told me he got rejected, and then when I told him that he could work through this he looked _guilty_ about it. The last time he looked like that was when he flirted with his trainer’s daughter after he was told not to.”

“It’s still not in his nature to just have a one night stand, Kuroo. Sex and relationships are connected to him, he thinks both are special.”

“Keiji, he said he _loves_ her. Do you really think he’s gonna just back down from that? He’s never loved anyone else in the way he seems to love this girl, don’t tell me that there isn’t a possibility they didn’t do it.”

Akaashi stayed silent. Not because Kuroo was right, but because there was definitely a possibility that Bokuto did not do what the middle blocker was insinuating.

Bokuto-san was an adult, and even if he was ditsy at times his moral compass was one of the strongest. He wasn’t one for mindless flings, and even if the l-word was in the picture that shouldn’t have changed much.

But the worry in Pain-in-the-Ass Kuroo-san’s voice was concerning, and raised several alarms for the first time in a few years.

Akaashi glanced at the clock mounted on the wall and clicked his tongue. “I can go check on him now.”

Kuroo exhaled in relief before thanking the younger setter and hanging up.

The dial tone echoed in Akaashi’s ear for a moment before it cut itself off, making him pull the device away. He pulled his lips into a tight line.

Bokuto-san had definitely come to terms with his feelings of (Surname)-sensei, and with less than pleasing results.

He wasn’t blind; the evening he had spent third-wheeling the two adults had given him enough time to process the information himself. Bokuto-san was in love with (Surname)-sensei; loved her in a way that he had not seen from his old captain in their entire friendship.

But he was sure that (Surname)-sensei felt the same way about Bokuto-san; no one had ever put up with the male in the same way she did.

Perhaps there was someone else Akaashi had not account for.

The vision of the balcony came into his mind, and Bokuto’s subtle mentions of the injured Ryuujin Nippon setter arose from the depths of his subconscious.

“How troublesome,” he mumbled before readying himself to visit the owlish man.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Does anyone else feel this weird ain in their chest or is that just me?
> 
> (im so sorry ill let myself out god im actually in pain after writing this chapter fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck)
> 
> Y'know what happens when you knock over one domino?  
> They all fall down.
> 
>  
> 
> Comments are always nice, even if you insult me. Leave a kudos if you hate this chapter entirely ,':)
> 
>  
> 
> ((oh, and if you feel like more pain listen to Missy Higgins' 'The Special Two' while reading this. have fun.))


	17. A Rock and a Hard Place

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “They had sex!”
> 
> Iwaizumi paused, if merely for a moment.
> 
> “And you care, why?”
> 
> //
> 
> He was trying.
> 
> And perhaps she should being trying as well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> have a long chapter to excuse my absence and a thank you for over 100 kudos bless

_June, 2018_

The harder he tried, the more he would fumble.

Oikawa grumbled to himself as he threw open the door to his apartment, leaning against the body next to him for support. Reluctantly, of course; weakness was not accepted in his household.

Iwaizumi propped open the door a little wider, letting the taller male pass by him with a little more ease. The ace’s arm was behind his lower back, ready to catch him in case the latter stumbled.

On other days Oikawa would have cracked a joke about the good old days – about how nothing really changed and how he always seemed to need his Iwa-chan around.

Today was not one of those days.

He risked being lectured by the older male, and frankly speaking, Oikawa was not in the mood for that.

They fumbled towards the kitchen, but not before Iwaizumi abandoned the setter on the couch and ordered he stay there. Oikawa protested amidst the throbbing pain of his knee, and the former picked up on it immediately.

“This is my house Iwa-chan,” Oikawa reminded.

“I’m older.”

“I’m taller.”

“And I’m _still_ older so shut up.”

And he did.

For a while.

Iwaizumi returned with a tea towel tied into a small back, and from the wet spots that patterned the material Oikawa could tell what was inside. There was no preamble or warning when the spiker slapped the makeshift ice pack on to the tender skin of the setter’s knee.

The ice clung to his skin, and Oikawa could not help but hiss at the jolt of cold that ran up and down his veins.

“That’s what you get for pushing too far.”

Oikawa didn’t answer, instead choosing to hide the frown that was threatening to appear on his face.

The silence unnerved Iwaizumi, but it gave the man enough time to analyse the situation before him.

“Did the aliens finally probe you?” Although there was amusement in his best friend’s tone, Oikawa could easily separate it from the subtle concern that lay almost dormant. “You’ve been spacing out too much.”

“Really? I hadn’t noticed.” It was non-committal, and the response made Iwaizumi grunt as he flopped down on to the sofa adjacent to the setter.

“Y’know you’re lucky that it was _me_ that found you and not your coach or trainer. They’d have probably strung your neck by now.”

Oikawa shrugged with one shoulder, pressing the other into the back of the sofa. “It’d be lucky if my knee wasn’t on fire right now but I guess beggars can’t be choosers.”

“What happened?”

“I worked too hard.”

Iwaizumi frowned. “Yeah thanks Captain Obvious, I figured as much. But what’s the reason?”

“No reason required.”

“Yes there is.”

“Since when?”

“Since forever.” Iwaizumi folded his arms. “You only fly off the handle when something’s wrong with your head, so I’m going to need an answer.”

“Isn’t Tobio-chan’s presence during practice enough?”

“Not when you’re a functioning working adult in society, no.”

The setter frowned.

“You can’t avoid answering me Oikawa, I know what I saw.”

He had a point, Oikawa knew that.

He couldn’t deny the fact he had been crumpled on the floor in varying degrees of pain, internally and externally, body drenched in sweat and a litany of expletives passing through his lips.

Ryuujin Nippon’s practice had ended and the setter opted to stay back for a little while longer, just to make sure the groove he found while practicing his serves was not some stroke of luck. It hadn’t been – much to his delight – but to his chagrin, discovering that forced his knee to buckle and a familiar pain to shoot up from the bend of the recovering joint.

He wasn’t sure as to how long he had been laying there, but even the densest of people could plainly see that the Great Oikawa Tooru was struggling with something.

Iwaizumi had found him – he wasn’t sure as to _how_ he knew he was there but he did – and the spiky-haired male had opted to lead him away as quickly and quietly as possible. With his few trips into work and talking to some of the best sports journalists in the country, he had grown very conscious of the attention that lingered around the Olympic athletes and the approaching deadline of 2020.

If people saw Oikawa – Golden Setter of the current roster – in such a state then there would be panic, and Oikawa didn’t need any more stress than he made for himself.

And Iwaizumi needed answers because it was clear that at the rate the setter was going, there would be more harm than good done to his recovery.

In the stagnant silence, Oikawa opened his mouth ever so slightly.

 

* * *

 

_May, 2018_

Perhaps the downside of a major injury was finding the rhythm that had once been left behind. For Oikawa, this process began with running around Mejirodai every morning in hopes to regain the stamina and strength in his once idle body.

Most days were pleasant, and the early morning journeys greeted him kindly, warmly, as though he were an old friend returning home after decades apart.

But unlike most mornings when he returned home to the peace and quiet of the district, he returned to a sight on the neighbouring balcony that made his stomach churn and blood boil.

Bokuto Koutarou, clad in sweatpants and nothing else but his bare torso on display with an exhausted yet dreamy look in his eyes.

Oikawa couldn’t remember the last time the thoughts whirred through his mind that quickly, and the velocity at which they travelled made him dizzy, queasy, as if his body had travelled halfway across the world in half a second.

Did they-?

No, they couldn’t-

But shit happens when you’ve been living wild-

Where they-?

No, Makki would have mentioned-

But Makki was shit with this stuff-

Oikawa willed his thoughts to stop for a second, and the sharp breath of air he took into his lungs felt more like salt water with the way it parched his throat, made him nauseous.

(Surname) was not like the rest of the people he and Bokuto and Kuroo hung out with – she was not as emotionally or mentally stable as he seemed to be. She needed to fix herself before she did anything stupid and thoughtless – and hooking up with the man that this weird knit of acquaintances considered to be her Best Guy™ was the most asinine thing she could have done.

Oikawa blinked – so it couldn’t have been of her decision.

(Surname) was good at thinking things through – she had to be; her history and job and career means that she has to be.

Which meant only one thing.

This was Bokuto’s fault.

Oikawa lunged.

Bokuto leant back onto the balls of his heels.

“You’ve got _fucking nerve_ , Bokuto,” Oikawa hissed, clawing at thin air as he tried to reach over to the wing spiker. If he was wearing a shirt then the setter knew he’d have him right where he wanted, and the reminder of the fact that the man was _half fucking naked_ irked him a little more. “You’re lucky you’re over there because I would have socked you in the nose by now.”

The other male knocked the former’s hand away and pushed it back over towards his own territory. “That’s a lie and you know it Oikawa.”

He shivered.

Bokuto never called him Oikawa.

At least not to his face.

And the ace had a point; for the life of him Oikawa couldn’t punch his friend – even if he probably did deserve it – because guys like Bokuto don’t _deserve_ to be hit.

Guys like Bokuto were considerate; they knew their boundaries and were the Nicest™ people you’d meet. In retrospect, a guy like Bokuto was what someone like Writer-chan needed.

But he was angry and the latter was there in such a compromising position that screamed One Night Stand and it made his head spin like a vinyl record. There was no doubt Bokuto knew about (Surname), maybe even more than he and Makki and Mattsun combined, so the thought of him in a state like this-

Oikawa couldn’t let this slide, no matter how much his mind and reasoning told him to do so.

In the middle of his ongoing stream of consciousness, Oikawa didn’t register the way the subtle emotions peered through Bokuto’s once blank expression. He didn’t see the flash of light behind his eyes, the way his lips curved down for just a brief millisecond.

But the brief micro-expressions didn’t matter – not when Bokuto chose that exact moment to speak.

“How does it feel to get everything you want and everything you don’t need, Tooru...? Is it nice? It must be nice.”

Oikawa stopped abruptly, the thoughts dissipating entirely while they were quickly replaced with the sound of Bokuto’s voice.

“What?”

“You must have done something pretty amazing in your past life to get everything you have now. Makes me wonder what I did.”

Oikawa faltered, hands pausing in mid air.

“Tarou-chan?”

“You have everything going for you.”

Oikawa frowned. “I don’t have volleyball.”

Bokuto scoffed. “I’ve always thought you were a really smart guy – but if you genuinely think you don’t have that anymore then you’re stupider than I am.” The spiker adjusted his stance. “You’re technically back on the team, you’ll probably play in time for the Asia Games, most of Japan knows who you are, and to top it all off you even have-”

He stopped himself mid-sentence, instead choosing to sigh.

Oikawa opened his mouth but was swiftly drowned out by the spiker once more.

“You don’t even try half of the time, man... But it just gets handed to you either way. It just makes me think, like... If I was just a little more like you then maybe I’d be okay.”

“What, more stubborn?”

“ _Selfish_.”

Oikawa blinked. Was that a compliment?

“Where’s this coming from?”

Bokuto hesitated.

He shrugged.

“I’ve been overdue for some reflection.”

The setter narrowed his eyes.

“What did you do?” The words left his mouth in a low voice, each syllable rumbling his throat slowly, carefully. It was laced with a warning, one he was sure he didn’t intentionally create, but whether or not Bokuto caught on was another question entirely.

The wistful look in his eyes returned. “Not enough.”

The air grew warm around them, and the parched sensation of Oikawa’s throat intensified.

Before he could continue, Bokuto leaned over to Oikawa’s balcony, clapping him on the bicep when he was in range to reach over. And as he retreated backwards, Oikawa swore he could see something break behind the amber coloured irises.

His mouth opened, then closed, then opened again before the syllables finally formed in his mind.

“Don’t fuck it up,” and then he was gone, sliding the door shut just like every other time someone had revealed themselves on the fourteenth floor.

 

* * *

 

_Present_

“They did it.”

“Who? Did what?”

“Tarou-chan and Writer-chan did it.”

“Not following.”

“They did it! The sideways salsa, the horizontal tango, had hanky-panky, put the hotdog in the taco-”

“You sound like a fucking idiot-”

“They had sex!”

Iwaizumi paused, if merely for a moment.

“And you care, why?”

Oikawa looked at him in disbelief.

“Did you not hear me?”

“I did.”

“He was with her Iwa-chan-”

“She’s an adult and can make her own decisions, Shittykawa.”

“But what if they’ve gone and fucked it up and _I_ get blamed for it?”

Iwaizumi’s eyes widened before they relaxed again, and a terse scoff passed through his lips. “And here I was thinking you were genuinely concerned for her or something. Always saving your own ass, aren’t you?”

“I am concerned – but am I not allowed to be worried for myself? Tetsu-chan is skilled in biochemistry and time lag attacks; he could destroy me on the court and then again off the court if he really fucking wanted.”

The tanned male pulled his lips into a thin line. “I doubt Kuroo would actually think you had something to do with whether or not those two have a fall out or not.” He rolled his shoulders back. “And besides, are you sure they did what you think they did?”

It was Oikawa’s turn to falter – he didn’t have any ample evidence, merely circumstantial and correlative evidence that put the spiker into a compromising position.

“I’m... I’m not sure, but what other option could it be?!”

The former shrugged. “He spent the night at a friend’s place since he was too lazy to go back to his? Fuck if I know Trashykawa.”

He unclenched his palms – Oikawa hadn’t even realize he had balled his hands into fists – as the questions and accusations that once clouded his mind last month returned in that very moment.

Iwaizumi tilted his head, eyes trained on the setter just like he had been so used to doing in their youth, watching the thoughts in his mind visibly appear in flashes across his facial features.

But above all else, above the emotions that he barely registered, Iwaizumi recognised the anger and frustration. And the way they translated in the situation suddenly made everything crystal clear.

Something tightened in his chest.

“You love her, don’t you?”

The air went stale around them. Dusty. Warm.

Uncomfortable.

His mouth dried, the sensation of cottonmouth emerging amidst the floundering caused by the question.

“I-I am not in love with (Surname), Iwa-chan!”

“That’s exactly how you tend to deny the truth, Assikawa.”

“I don’t love her.” He deadpanned.

There was a cold-hearted look in his eye, a serious one that said that he was telling the truth, but Iwaizumi knew better.  Oikawa had always been hard to read when it came to Vulnerability and Emotions – but he had known him long enough to know when he was in love.

Especially since this was the first time the ace had ever seen his best friend like this.

“You can’t love someone you barely even talk to Iwa-chan.” Oikawa countered. The former broke eye contact for a split second.

“Then why do you keep looking at the balcony?”

His heart stopped, and Oikawa swore he heard Iwaizumi scoff under his breath.

“You two talk more than you let on, huh.”

Oikawa didn’t answer.

“Is that the real reason why you care about whether or not they hooked up or not?”

“We don’t talk enough for me to having _feelings_ for her; she’s a hassle.” He folded his arms. “And even if I _did_ care in the way you’re implying, it would only be because Makki and Mattsun – and even _you_ – are making me make sure she’s okay because _you three_ are caught up in her little spell or whatever.”

“But you relate to her more because of how fucking similar you idiots are.”

“And?”

“And that means you probably know her more than all of us combined.”

“I know you much better than Makki and Mattsun know you but am I in love with you? No.”

Iwaizumi faltered slightly, letting his mouth open and close in a strange rhythm as he tried to argue his point. No words came out.

“So if you aren’t in love with her then why do you care so much? What could possibly be in this for your benefit?” The words were strangled slightly, strained, as if Iwaizumi couldn’t believe he had to entertain the lies Oikawa had himself believing.

The setter paused.

What was the reason he cared so much?

It had to be more than just the thought of saving his own ass – Tetsu-chan was a force to be reckoned with but there hadn’t been any action since the setter discovered the situation; which, by all intents and purposes, meant he was safe.

So what was it?

He blinked.

Obligation.

“Mattsun and Makki like her, I have to be nice to her and make sure she’s okay since they don’t see her often… And if she’s anything like me then she won’t like getting fucked around.”

They held each other’s gazes, both taking turns to regard the other in their current states.

What Oikawa said wasn’t a complete lie, but Iwaizumi knew that it wasn’t the complete truth either. But there was only so much he could get the stubborn setter to admit – or at least realize about himself.

So he dropped the topic, startling his best friend with the speed at which he changed gears, with the way he seemingly forgot about his interrogation and chose to be pleasant.

He would figure it out later, he thought to himself later that evening, there would be another time for further sleuthing – just not when Oikawa was not in a good place mentally.

 

* * *

 

Against her better judgement, (Name) still found herself travelling back to Osaka in the middle of the month.

The alarms had been sounding in her mind for most for the morning, as well as all of the evening prior while she had been packing her bags for her four day trip.

The worries, of course, varied from who she could run into, who could see her, whether or not her father would hear, whether or not _Makoto_ would hear.

A pair of large hands pulled her suitcase out of her grasp and shoved it into the overhead shelf, the action stirring her out of her stupor.

“Thanks, Bo.” She mumbled, handing the other abandoned suitcase towards her companion.

“Did you want the window seat, (Name)-chan?”

She shrugged. “You can take it.”

“But don’t you look out it to pass the time?”

The writer arched an eyebrow at him, watching as he shoved his suitcase into the space next to hers.

Yes, she did do that. But most other times they travelled, Bokuto had slept through the transit and didn’t really pay attention to what she did to keep herself entertained.

At least, she thought so.

Maybe he did know more about her than she originally realized.

The spiker dusted his hands on his jeans, turning to face her. There was a tense moment of eye contact before he nudged her closer to the wall, letting her take the window.

And that was the end of their discussion. The moment they both took their seats the train lurched forward, and Bokuto was out like a light, with his chair reclined as far as it could go and his jacket being use as a thin blanket.

They agreed to take the first train out of the prefecture, which meant a bright an early 6am start for two night owls.

The shinkansen terminal had been empty, save for the conductors and ticket booth operators that were scattered about, getting ready for their long morning shifts. The emptiness followed them into their carriage and for once, the writer wished for something other than privacy.

(Name) unclipped the tray table from the chair in front of her and placed the bento boxes they had purchased on the flat surface.

She’d wake him up from breakfast, but for now she decided to revel in the silence of the morning.

(Name) hadn’t realised that their trip would start out so uncomfortably.

She prayed that it would not keep on the track it trundled along.

 

* * *

 

Day 1 – or what was left of Day 1 after they arrived at 10 and dropped off their luggage at their hotel – consisted of (Name) showing Bokuto around the nearby areas of their temporary residency. Dōtonbori was within distance of what the spiker considered a leisurely stroll, which meant she was on photographer duty while the spiker pointed out things for him to pose in front.

He almost missed the Glico Man if it weren’t for the Osaka native pointing it out to him. She got a few good shots, some dramatic angles and some ones for possible blackmail if that Kuroo Guy ever got his hands on them.

And when night crested over the horizon, the streets were flooded with the usual streams of nightlife that (Name) remembered from her time back in high school. People mingling together in the main street from all walks of life – students and desk jockeys and tourists alike – paid no mind to the couple who walked side by side, training their gazes anywhere but each other.

(Name)’s hope of the unruly tension fading seemed to equal naught, and from the subtle glances she took of Bokuto’s profile she could tell that he had similar feelings to the situation.

A part of her couldn’t help but feel like this was her fault; that her rejection (if it could be considered a rejection) had created a tall, tall wall that neither of them could break through. Another part of her believed that maybe there would never be a way to tear it down.

But the thoughts cleared when she felt a soft warmth envelope her hand and tug her closer. She pivoted her weight as to avoid tripping, poising her head up to face the man next to her.

“It’s crowded.” He said.

She shrugged. “I grew up here, I can handle it.”

“You could still get lost.”

“You underestimate me.”

It was his turn to shrug. “I guess.”

He slotted his fingers besides hers, giving them a soft squeeze before continuing forward.

(Name) didn’t pull away.

Instead she couldn’t help but smile at his actions, a sad smile but a smile all the same.

He was trying.

And perhaps she should being trying as well.

 

* * *

 

Day 2 was Universal Studios; a full day of rides and food and photos that took far too much mental preparation for the writer than she would have preferred to admit.

She had gone a few times before with Makoto and her family, as well as with friends (read: Makoto’s friends) from high school. On those occasions, she was with people and yet she had very much felt out of the loop; an extra tire when none were nearing flat.

(Name) had gone alone once before, a few days prior to her exodus to Tokyo; she had gotten a free dessert from one of the restaurants in the thoroughfare when the servers realised she had come to the theme park alone.

It was safe to say that her experiences at the USJ were not _entirely_ enjoyable.

(Hell, half of her life in the prefecture would not be considered _at all enjoyable_ but who was counting these days?)

The writer must have mentioned that in passing to Bokuto offhandedly at some point since it appeared that he made it his mission to ensure she was having just a good of a time as he was.

From the moment they passed through the gates, Bokuto took off like a rocket and almost disappeared into the slowly swelling crowds of people. He stalled for a moment before reaching out and grabbing the woman’s hand, entwining their fingers together like the night before, and then shooting off once more – a tired writer by his side as he scanned the area of the shortest lines.

The better part of their day was spent ride hopping; Jurassic Park, WaterWorld, JAWS, Terminator 2, The Amazing Spiderman, Hollywood Dream – you name it. The pair rode them, skipping most of the line thanks to the express passes they had purchased with their tickets.

And when they had seen the attractions and spent more than enough time lining up for roller-coasters of every variety, Bokuto lead (Name) towards the far western side of the amusement park, as if he had been there dozens of times before.

For a moment she was confused, and then the looming stone brick gate framed by a forrest appeared before her, causing a rush of understanding to consume her.

“I refuse to believe that a bookworm like _you_ doesn’t like Harry Potter.” Bokuto announced as he took a sly photo of the wrecked Flying Car from the second book.

“Who doesn’t want magic to be real?” She countered, watching as his face lit up as the path curved and revealed the familiar sight of Hogsmeade.

And then he was off, tugging her along through the mass of people walking in the opposite direction as them, and into the nearest building.

Drapes of red and green and yellow and blue adorned the walls, with matching robes and accessories as far as the eye could see. Bokuto pulled her again, weaving through the other patrons towards the far side of the building where a series of other children had gathered around. She caught a glimpse of one of the nearby signs; it read ‘House Sorting’.

He got sorted into Gryffindor, and (Name) kept true to her promise in buying him whatever he wanted by getting his robes, a wand and a broomstick (which was a good part of her savings she was probably never going to see again).

To his glee she was sorted; and while she had gone to stand in line for Butterbeer the wing spiker had bought her own robes and wand to compliment his already completed set.

Where she would wear it all she had no fucking clue, but it was his thought that counted the most so she was in no hurry to make him feel bad.

Much to her behest, Bokuto carried their goods all the way back to the hotel while (Name) trailed alongside him, always within reach to make sure she could find him.

It wasn’t until they returned to their respective rooms at their hotel that (Name) realised how little restraint she had towards the spiker.

Whatever part of her heart he carved a place in for himself was not something a rejection and cover up could overlook – and perhaps there was more to their circumstance that neither of them had entirely considered.

 

* * *

 

Day 3 started without Bokuto.

The man in question had slept well into the early morning and the writer anticipated that he would probably be out like a light until the late afternoon. And that was understandable considering how much energy he had spent running around the theme park, not to mention how many souvenirs he had to carry back to and then pack into his suitcase.

So as far as she was concerned, Day 3 was a day purely for (Surname) (Name).

And a day to herself meant she could finally do what she really didn’t intend to do.

Apologise to Makoto.

It had been completely spontaneous -  a spur of the moment decision that had been sparked when she went to get breakfast.

Her body acted on memory, guiding her through the city before most stores opened towards a small breakfast bar in her hometown district of Tennoji. She and Makoto stopped by there on their way to school on days where the latter had woken up early enough to meet with the former. The writer had ordered what had once been her usual of a western style breakfast bagel to go, and she found herself walking the same path they took towards their high school campus.

(Name) missed Makoto, and though Bokuto had been a friendly (for lack of a better word) distraction she couldn’t help but crave the familiarity that Makoto had.

Maybe it was the nostalgia of being home.

Actually, it probably _was_ the nostalgia if (Name) was honest with herself.

But the apology had been long overdue, months in the making and almost forgotten about in the whirlwind that was her rather unfortunate existence of the year 2018.

And so she began her search.

From what information (Name) remembered in faint, passing conversation, Makoto had moved out of Tennoji in south Osaka where they both lived in their youth and into the northern division of the prefecture, close to the Umeda business district.

The move baffled the writer – who would willing move away from the suburbs for the hustle and bustle of a metropolitan area?

Technically she had, but then again she had moved to Bunkyo – the ward where nothing really happened. It wasn’t the pot calling the kettle black – more like a kettle criticising another kettle for not being smarter about their adult choices.

And to her surprise and dismay, she was able to track Fuyutsuki Makoto down using a copy of the white pages from her hotel room. A surprise because how did they keep that thing up-to-date, and a dismay because maybe it _was_ that easy for her father to find her early that year.

The listing of her address was in a small apartment block in Umeda, much too small and inconspicuous for a government official to live in so it was safe to assume that Makoto had been living alone. Most officials had housing supplied by the government anyway, and the writer remembered hearing through the grapevine that the soon-to-be husband and wife were in no rush to move in together when things became more serious.

All in all it was fortuitous, no fiancé meant no distraction and – most importantly – no audience that she had to perform in front of.

God only knew that apologising to the person she had wronged was enough of a pain in her side.

The writer reached the apartment, being let in by a security guard, and took the stairs up to the sixth floor of the building. The elevators were fine, but walking meant she could turn around at any minute to back out, meant she had a little more time to herself to think things over.

At least she thought so, but her reverie was broken when a voice filled her ears.

“(Name)...?”

She blinked.

There stood Makoto, donning a thick white sweatshirt and her hair pulled up into a messy bun, eyes tired and showing a faint bit of surprise behind the dark hues.

She hadn’t even realised she arrived and knocked on the door.

“I’m an ass, you don’t have to forgive me, but just know that I am really sorry that I ever took you for granted and treated you as a lesser friend. You mean a lot to me, and I want you to know that even if we don’t continue down this path as friends, I’ll remember the years we had as some of my best.”

Her apology left her mouth like a torrent of water, gushing forth from a leak in the dam that was her mind. The words swirled around in the air, permeating around them like a winter fog. If (Name) was honest, the apology sounded a bit too rehearsed. It had been – the writer had gone over the words in her mind during the entire train trip up to Umeda, hell even before that on the shinkansen trip into the prefecture itself. But with her rehearsals came the confidence, came the assurance that she had said everything she wanted and needed to say to the woman now standing in front of her.

Makoto blinked.

“You’re in Osaka.”

(Name) felt all prior mentioned confidence dissipate from her body – everything she had said and felt was out there in the open for what could possibly be the first time in forever and _that_ was what she noticed?

“No, I’m an illusion and this was all a weird hallucination inflicted by a rare fever dream.”

“You came all this way to Osaka to apologise?”

There was a small part of her that wanted to agree, to say that she had found the strength somewhere deep within herself to come back to a place of pain to make amends because she was now a Good Person™.

But that’d be a lie; she wasn’t good, she was still an asshole that was rough around the edges and was only in their hometown because of a guy who she rejected and did not want to really part from.

“It’s a little more for pleasure than personal matters.” She answered, hoping that the wording was enough to satisfy Makoto and render her inquisitive nature useless.

Makoto folded her arms across her chest. (Name)’s heart tightened and she swore all her blood stopped moving for a second.

“Y’know, I was purposely ignoring you.”

“As expected when you’re angry.”

She shook her head. “But that’s the thing; I stopped being angry really quickly and just kept ignoring you.”

The writer blinked, very tempted to walk away without another word. But she willed herself to stay, to make sure that she heard the full story like a normal person would.

“I know you, (Name), and you’re a private person even to the best of us so you had every right to not tell me what was wrong. It’s who you are, and I shouldn’t have gotten angry at you for that. So I was waiting for you to come back home to apologise and mean it, yeah, but knowing you, you wouldn’t come anywhere near Osaka if you didn’t have a better reason to... And well – you don’t consider apologies a good reason for anything. That meant waiting for you to _have_ a reason, time – coming here for something _other_ than _me_.”

“What made you so sure that would happen?”

“I didn’t, but I was willing to wait for my Maid of Honour to come back to me. Unfortunately, the infamous stubbornness of (Surname) (Name) had rubbed off on me to my fiancé’s dismay.”

“It was stupid of you to wait for me.”

“And yet you’re here.”

“Not for you.” She admitted.

“I know.” Makoto was grinning madly now. “Which means you’re here for someone else and I was right you selfish bitch, I’m so proud!”

A pair of arms pulled her into the other woman’s chest, the sides of their heads knocking together from the force of the sudden embrace. (Name) stumbled, but still let her arms wind around the torso of her friend.

And while she was elated because the plan worked and her apology was accepted, she was also slightly angry at the situation that had been laid out before her.

She had this all planned out.

Perhaps Makoto was hiding much more than (Name) originally anticipated.

That bitch.

“So who is it?!”

Makoto pulled herself away from the writer, staring deep into her best friend’s eyes as if searching for the answer preemptively.

“Eh?”

“Who’d you sacrifice your dignity for? Was it Oikawa? I bet it was Oikawa! It makes sense, you’re neighbours, he’s super dreamy.”

The writer blinked a few times before shaking her head at her guess. Makoto groaned.

“I thought _for sure_ it would have been him!”

“I’m pretty sure he’s on some weird type of self-inflicted house arrest.”

“Kind of like how you’re on self-inflict house arrest?”

“It’s called reclusiveness; and its normal behaviour for a writer. If anything, I’d be concerned over the fact that _I_ of all people am currently standing at your door in broad daylight.”

Makoto gave her a pointed look, folding her arms as she waited for a proper answer.

(Name) hesitated on the explanation.

The only thought that passed through her mind was to tread lightly – to not make the holiday sound like anything more.

This was a casual trip between friends.

Friends.

Who had no awkward tension between them at all.

“My friend wanted to go to USJ, and I owe him one so-”

“Him!?”

“Fuck, I forgot how loud you are.”

“Come in here and tell me everything!”

Before (Name) could protest, Makoto had a hold on her wrist and was already pulling her over the threshold of the doorway.

It was just past 11am.

Bokuto could wait just a little bit longer.

 

* * *

 

(Name) returned to the hotel in the late afternoon, and true to her early morning prediction Bokuto came stumbling towards her room just a few minutes after her arrival.

“Morning sleeping beauty.” She greeted, leaning against her heavy door with a lazy smile.

“What’s for lunch?” The spiker grumbled, scratching his cheek tiredly while he continued to pry open his eyelids.

“It’s four, Bo.”

“Afternoon tea.”

“Still tired?”

“Very. I haven’t been this exhausted since last year’s FIVB.”

“Did you just want to order in then?”

He shook his head.

“We were meant to see your hometown today...We gotta go.”

“Tennoji isn’t much, and I spent more time out of the area than in it.” She brushed off his enthusiasm, still watching him come to full consciousness with amusement.

“I didn’t know you were a delinquent, (Name)-chan.” If he were more animated, (Name) knew that Bokuto would tease her more. It still didn’t stop her from flicking his forehead. “So where did you hang out if you weren’t in Tennoji?”

“Dotonbori. I mean, most kids in Osaka did. But there’s that really nice book cafe and a few dozen cat cafes in the area.”

“Well let’s go!”

“Eh?”

“Book cafe; it’s the one across the bridge near the Glico Man right?” She nodded. “Then let’s go, wait for me, I’ll go get ready.”

“Bo you’ll probably fall asleep while I sit and read for a few hours, you still look absolutely wrecked.”

He shrugged, upper body leaning in towards her. “You’d be having fun right? That’s all I really care about.”

The writer tried to appear stoic, heart involuntarily thumping against the framework of her ribcage.

“Don’t keep me waiting... the cafe gets busy when school ends.”

Bokuto grinned, all signs of sleep finally washing away from his features as he tapped his hand against the doorframe.

And then he was gone, retreating to his room a little ways down the hall.

(Name) hadn’t realised that she held her last breath of air.

 

* * *

 

They spent the better half of the fading afternoon at the cafe, (Name) curled up with a book while Bokuto chose to sit beside her and scroll through whatever app was open on his phone. On occasion, she felt his head drop towards her shoulder only to shoot back up as quickly as it dropped.

She remained as unfazed as possible.

When night proceeded to fall over the prefecture, (Name) tried to steer the still exhausted male back to their hotel.

He remained obstinate.

Bokuto made it clear he wanted to go back to the curry place they had found tucked away in Dōtonbori, just a few always away from the first Dragon Ramen location. Despite it being the dinner rush, the location itself was still was deserted as when they originally found it.

The restaurant could be more closely defined as a bar, if anything. There was only a counter that divided the cooking and dining areas, and a small walkway behind the stools to let people move further in. Tucked into the far corner was a small bookshelf, a few personal knick-knacks from times gone by and recent editions of running manga scattered through its shelves.

The older gentlemen recognised them as soon as they entered; a warm smile on his face as they neared. From their last time there, they had learned he was the sole chef and owner of the establishment while his wife handled the finances. Their grandson would take over the business once he returned from university, and it wasn’t until recent years that business had started to pick up a little more.

The pair ordered what the chef had called their ‘regulars’ without any confirmation from them, and in a few short minutes two plates appeared before them, piled up with their exact orders from a few nights before.

“You remember things about your customers,” he had informed with a wry smile, “especially when it is an attractive couple such as yourselves!”

The denial died in the writer’s throat as Bokuto laughed, eyes curling up into half moons as he acknowledged the sentiment.

(Name) wasn’t sure if he was genuine or not.

They were recognised mid-way through their meal, a few avid fans approaching the windows that lined the outer wall of the building in order to get a better few of the pair eating in private. One of them, a boy no older than sixteen, had entered and approached, just to make sure that it really was Bokuto Koutarou and (Surname) (Name) in the flesh.

Bokuto had always been a social butterfly, and it was no surprise to her that the black-and-white-haired male would strike up a conversation with the teen and the group of people who were quick to run in and join.

And the dreaded question arose amidst the discussion the writer desperately tried to stay out of.

“So how do you guys know each other?”

It was bound to happen, especially when considering that Bokuto was an athlete and not an all an academic when (Name) was exactly his opposite.

But where she hesitated, Bokuto stepped forward.

“Mutual friends,” he answered, “(Surname)-san said she could show me around Osaka before life got too busy.”

It took everything in her body not to act surprised at the ease with which he answered. And the sudden formality he had slipped into was something she had never experienced before in their friendship. As far as she could remember, there had never been a formal stage in this sense – Bokuto had immediately slipped into the familiarity that they had grown comfortable with.

Before she could question it to herself, an image of that night flashed in her mind, and she understood.

It was better to do this, to pretend they were mere acquaintances and nothing more.

Even if it meant burning the bridge of progress they were in the middle of building.

The group of fans didn’t question any further, instead taking photos of them separately and then leaving them to finish their dinner in what was left of their peace.

The rest of the evening was uneventful, even as they paid for their meals and returned to the hotel. And though (Name) was sure they were alone, she could not help but feel that more people would approach them, would make things a little more awkward than they already were.

Maybe she was over-thinking it.

The brief glimpse of serenity she caught on the man’s face was enough to tell her to calm down, to tell her that it was all in her head.

“Where’d you go today?” Bokuto asked as they entered the elevator and the doors shut in front of them. “You were all dressed up when I came over.”

(Name) looked out of the glass walls of the elevator, taking in the overhead of the streets below. “I went to see Makoto.” She admitted.

“And?”

“She forgave me. Said she was proud that I’m not so much of a ‘selfish bitch’ anymore. And then we started finalising plans for her wedding. Guess everything’s pretty okay now.”

A shallow smile appeared on the spiker’s face, and he nudged her shoulder affectionately.

“See? I told you, give her the time she needs and the time _you_ need and it’ll all work out.”

“Yeah, I guess.”

The elevator dinged, doors opening to reveal their floor. They stepped out in unison, though the male’s steps began to slow down, a rare event since usually _he_ tended to be the one leading the charge.

The pair paused in front of the writer’s room, and Bokuto watched as she fumbled through her pockets for the key.

He glanced around the hallway once before training his eyes on her as she opened the door.

(Name) felt the door give out from her under at the same time she sensed a sudden presence behind her. She went to turn.

“Boku-”

And then he was on her, lips pressed together as he pushed her further and further in to her room. The door slammed shut behind them, and (Name) felt her body get flipped, back quickly pressed against the cold wood of the door.

Her hands found purchase on his shoulders, steadying herself instinctively as he continued to pry her mouth open with a haste she had never really seen from him.

Her head spun, eyes involuntarily closing at the whirlwind of sensations that shut down any rational thought in her mind.

His lips left hers, and he trailed down to the curve where her shoulder and neck met, leaving open mouth kisses into the skin while his hands moved up and down and back and forth across the expanse of her waist and lower back.

And then her eyes opened in a flash because no, no, they should not be doing this-

“Bo, hold on...”

She cupped her hands over his mouth, prying him away from her now raw and red skin. Their eyes met and her breath hitched.

The look in his eyes was desperate, was hopeful, was heartbreaking.

“What’s wrong?”

His nails scratched her skin through the fabric of her shirt. She loosened her hold and let her hands go to the sides of his face, the fat of his cheeks pooling upwards as his head began to drop.

“When we go back to Tokyo you won’t need me anymore.”

“Bo-”

“You have Makoto again, you rejected me – you won’t _need_ me anymore (Name)...” He leant into her touch.

“That’s-”

“And I know what my role in your life was... I was just a side character who filled the empty space in your life, freeloading off attention while you waited to find a way back to the person you actually needed. All I was pinned to do was help you, to make you feel like the world was okay and yeah, maybe I did that. And yeah, maybe I did a whole lot of other stuff as well – stuff that you probably didn’t want or need but... But I want you to need me like I need you... And if we go back to Tokyo then that’ll be the end of us and I just...”

He sighed, the warm air fanning her face.

“I’m not ready to let you go... not yet.”

Bokuto’s gaze met hers, the striking amber freezing her in place.

“Can you still need me? At least till the end of Osaka.”

All moisture left her mouth and throat, an arid desert forming through her entire respiratory system. Her mind was still a blur from the kiss, and it reeled from the second confession in two months that left her speechless.

He pulled her left hand away from his cheek and pressed her palm up to his chest, the palm meeting the covered flesh of his pectoral.

“You can feel it right...?” He leant forward, breaking eye contact as he pressed his forehead into her collarbone. “It’s yours, even if you didn’t need it for very long, it’s yours...”

Amidst the rise and fall of his breathing, she felt his heartbeat. She couldn’t move her hand away, and for a moment she swore their hearts were beating in time.

“Just one more day,” he murmured, looking down to where their hands were still connected, “let me live one more day where this isn’t wrong... where I can be yours.”

Bokuto Koutarou was a man who had given her more than enough in the mere few months of their friendship – companionship, even. He gave and gave and, as far as (Name) knew, never wanted anything back.

Not until last month.

Not until now.

So perhaps, she thought, it would be okay to give him this one thing.

Maybe.

She sighed, and threaded her fingers through his hair, nodding.

There wasn’t any verbal confirmation, but Bokuto could tell that it was an ‘okay’.

He moved, leaning closer and closer into her touch and angling his head so that his mouth was poised on to the nape of her neck, his hot breath fanning over her heated skin.

She had to agree.

Was compelled to agree.

But not out of pity or obligation

But because she _wanted_ to.

Because no matter how well she put her life together going forward, there would always be a spot for him, would always be a part of her that needed him around.

In one way or another.

 

* * *

 

They were to catch the shinkansen back to Tokyo at 8 in order to arrive back into the Bunkyo Ward on one of the last trains of the day.

Bokuto wanted a full four days, and (Name) had willing followed through with the demands.

Their final day was spent shopping in Umeda. They had left their luggage in rented lockers down at the subway station and the writer warned her companion not to go overboard with the souvenirs and gifts for people.

“Shopping here is a rabbit hole,” she said, “and I don’t want to be covered in stuff for a four hour train ride home tonight.”

The spiker had only purchased a few things, minor trinkets and joke gifts for his teammates and friends, while the more substantial purchases were for himself; a few shirts and jackets, phone accessories and the like.

Through the whole ordeal of shopping, Bokuto made sure the writer remained by his side. He stood too close to her in crowds, made sure to have an arm around her shoulders whenever they walked to and from a different location.

Whatever intimacy he could get away with, he did it.

Because one day only had 24 hours, and he’d be an idiot if he didn’t make the most of his last day with her in the way he knew was so wrong for the both of them.

Bokuto coerced her back to downtown Dōtonbori for dinner, citing the need for Ichiran one last time before he left.

Their table was on the third level of the building, tucked away into one of the darker corners of the building. He held her hand under the table, acting none the wiser when the occasional waiter came to give them their food or check in on their meal.

He said nothing about the action, nothing about the circles he rubbed into her skin, or the electricity that seemed to course from the nerves in his hand to the ones in hers.

When they finished their meal it was 7, with the night sky assuming its final form as a dark cloak over the world, scattered stars painting the infinite cosmos beyond.

And they walked for a while, began their trek through the district to get to Shin-Osaka station, before they took a minor detour at the writer’s request to avoid an oncoming crowd of people. He agreed, looping her arm around his and taking the walkway that disappeared beneath the overpass.

Bokuto kissed her there under that small corner of the Dōtonbori bridge, and as their lips touched her eyes flickered around from side to side to make sure they were alone.

They were.

So she let him.

His warm hands trailed down her shoulders towards hers, and he raised her arms and wrapped them around his neck.

And then he moved, shifting so his palms rested on her waist. His leg wedged itself between hers, the muscle thigh pushing the limbs apart as he crowded her further and further and further-

Her back hit the wall with a dull thud, the cool concrete soothing her burning skin.

He was panting, laying heavy open-mouth kisses on to her skin while his tongue traced the contours of her lips, hand roaming up and down her sides and arms and waist as if trying to commit every inch of her to memory.

When they broke apart, he pressed his forehead against hers and let his hands tighten around her hips.

“One more night,” he rasped, “please.”

And (Name) almost agreed, and almost let herself be swept away by the tsunami that was Bokuto Koutarou if it weren’t for her catching herself on the edge.

Barely.

“Bo...”

“I know.” He groaned, forehead slipping down so he could rest it between her clavicles. “Just... Just five more minutes then, please...” His grip tightened, leaving firm indents in her skin. “Let me pretend for five more minutes and then I’ll act like we never happened.

She stopped herself from denying his sentiment because it was true, there was something between them.

Neither of them could deny that.

But she held him closer for the five minutes like he asked, feeling the steady thump of his pulse against her hand on his neck, feeling the soft circles he rubbed into her skin, and the steady breath that fanned over the skin of her neck and chest.

And Bokuto took that as his final okay.

 

* * *

 

Mejirodai was uneasily quiet at midnight.

They separated at the station, meager waves of a goodbye exchanged before he began walking uptown while she traversed towards the downtown outskirts of the district.

She could have sworn she heard someone call out to her.

But she kept walking, never once looking back, never once wavering at the way her heart tugged her in the opposite direction.

 

* * *

 

It was a few days after she had returned from Osaka that he had appeared at her door, hours after their mutual acquaintance had left her pantry empty of its contents.

She hadn’t bothered to try and make herself presentable for Mattsun, so she only assumed that the muscular man in front of her would be just as lenient with her laziness.

“Ah... Iwaizumi-san, yes?”

The tanned male nodded, shifting his weight from one foot to the other.

“(Surname)-san, nice to see you. Are you well?”

“As well as I can be.” She replied. “Would you like to come in?”

He nodded, murmuring his apologies for intruding before they both made their way inside. Mere minutes passed and they were both on the couch, respective drinks in hand and the TV volume down to a minimum.

“To what do I owe the pleasure then, Iwaizumi-san? Mattsun left not too long ago and Hanamaki hasn’t been back here in a few days so it can’t possibly be for them.”

“Is it wrong to check in on you?”

“It is when our first and last encounter was under unsavoury circumstances that were underpinned by a lie.” She answered. “Thank you, though. I do appreciate your help that evening. It was fortunate that we already have a somewhat believe connection.”

He sipped on his water. “I follow up on things, regardless of who or what, so it only made sense that I see if you’re good. Mattsun and Makki don’t give useful details.”

“They’re both useless, really. They’re only good for eating my food and barging into my apartment.”

He hummed in agreement, not meeting her gaze. It almost amused her, a man of his stature seemingly intimidated by someone as dorky and horribly underwhelming as her.

“You’ve been talking to Oikawa, right?” He spoke, hands tightening around the sides of his glass as he did. She nodded, and he caught the movement from the corner of his eye. “Has he been okay these days?”

(Name) thought for a second and shrugged, “we haven’t talked in a few weeks so I wouldn’t know. And when we do meet there isn’t a guarantee that we’ll be open to do the whole deep and meaningful conversation you and your friends might do.”

The male pulled his lips into a tight line. “I see...”

“Do you always play the concerned friend?”

“When it comes to the idiot next door, yeah. Mattsun and Makki, not so much.” (Name) hummed at his sentiment. “Even when you did talk frequently, did you notice anything _different_ about him?”

“In what way?”

“Like, mentally... Is he doing okay?”

She shrugged. “Frankly speaking, I don’t think I’m in a position to determine whether or not Limpy is mentally sound or not.” She placed her drink down on the kotatsu. “He seems like he has his shit together some days. These days when I get a rare glimpse of him make it seem like he’s a hot mess.”

Iwaizumi nodded, forlorn.

“Oh, okay...”

She blinked.

“You don’t think he’s doing so hot?”

“He hasn’t been that great since the injury and now things have gotten worse and I was hoping to find answers with you but...”

(Name) watched as the male in front of her lapsed into thoughtful silence, staring at his reflection in the liquid. It was a different Iwaizumi compared to her impression of him all those weeks ago. The strong-headed, calm and collected man had been replaced with a doting friend, one with the aura of a person at his wits end with what he should do next.

And as she watched him, she saw it, a give – a tell into the person she didn’t necessarily intend of examining that evening.

The world seemed to quiet down around them.

(Name) narrowed her eyes at Iwaizumi.

“So tell me, Iwaizumi-san... How long have you been in love with Oikawa?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sosososososo sorry for the wait friendos, life is rough and I needed to buy a new laptop ASAP for uni so that's my really shitty excuse. But a new laptop means more frequent updates!!
> 
> Oh man, I wanted to give everyone a break with this chapter but guess who's a horrible person?? This chick
> 
> ALSO~~ This story is now being beta read by my beautiful homeslice [@Arichuloco](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Arichuloco/profile)! Can you believe it? I can't believe it! Go check out her stuff, give her some love because she deserves it and the world and she'll need it if she's living through all this heartbreak before y'all do~~~~~~
> 
> Leave me a comment or a kudos, I love knowing how you all cope with my bullshit! Feedback gives me them Good Vibes 
> 
> But what did I tell you guys? They all fall down.  
> Domino effect.


	18. The Extremes of Pining

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Love made you do things you shouldn’t; (Name) had become very familiar with that idea over the course of a few weeks. 
> 
> //
> 
> He frowned.
> 
> Even her titles are unimaginative.

_June, 2018_

The music of the variety show was drowned out in the silence that pounded in their eardrums, a tense atmosphere slowly permeating around them.

“How’d you guess?”

The male’s voice was level, even, unperturbed by the revelation of his secret. The writer shrugged at the question.

(Name) prided herself on her ability to notice details and the way they conveyed emotion. Every micro-movement was a dead giveaway of the inner wellbeing of her subject.

Iwaizumi Hajime was no different.

The way he had approached her so cautiously was a giveaway enough – and even though it was similar to Hanamaki’s original approach there was a distinct difference; her editor was not as invested into the setter’s overall wellbeing. in that her editor wasn’t that into the setter’s wellbeing overall.

And the more she stared at the spiky-haired male, the more she recognised the expression that adorned his rugged features.

The olive green eyes lightened into gold, and on the expressionless mouth drew a sad, broken smile.

 _Not now, you fuck_.

When she didn’t answer, Iwaizumi took the charge.

“Is it that obvious?”

She blinked.

“Writer’s Instinct. I just knew what cues to look for.”

He began to answer.

“Wanna hold that thought?” Iwaizumi raised a brow at her. “I have a feeling we’ll need some stronger stuff.”

The ace paused with a curt nod, watching as the writer stood up without another word and hurried off to the kitchen. There were a few clangs and then she was back, two cups held in her left hand while she choked the neck of a sake bottle with the right.

Iwaizumi scoffed. “Y’know, Mattsun was telling me that he thinks you’re developing a problem.”

“What Mattsun doesn’t know won’t hurt him,” she reasoned, sitting at the kotatsu and tucking her feet underneath the inactive heater. She set the items down and began pouring two shots worth of sake into both cups before she slid one over to his side.

The spiker took a seat next to her, stopping the glass from sliding all the way off the edge. He held it between one set of fingers, spinning it slowly as if inspecting it for clues before he decided it was safe. As he did, his grip tightened.

“Generous.”

“Could be,” she took a sip, “or I’m just looking for more answers, who knows?”

Iwaizumi hummed.

“You were saying?”

The teasing look on his face vanished, immediately being replaced by one of dismay.

“I was trying to keep all that emotion bullshit on the down-low.” He propped his chin up on his hand. “I mean, I kept it quiet for almost two decades, I had a good run.”

The writer let out a low whistle. “Twenty years, that’s impressive.”

“You were still able to see through it.”

“Like I said, I know what to look for.”

Her curiosity ebbed for a moment.

“So from childhood or?”

The ace ran a hand through his hair, “I guess.”

“You guess?”

“Oikawa Tooru had been a pain in my side for as long as I can remember. He was a cry-baby who figured out new ways to whine, but he was around, and I guess that was enough.”

“Cute.”

“He’s an ugly crier.”

“I’d believe that, yeah.”

“And then we got into volleyball – he played setter and I played wing, and that was more than enough to stick by each other.”

“What, not the whole ‘known each other since birth’ thing?”

“Like I said, he’s an ugly crier.”

She snorted.

“But we were younger back then,” Iwaizumi took a slow sip of sake.

“When’d you put a label on it?”

“Tail end of junior high, maybe… It’s hard to say, I had all the time in the world to figure it out back then. And then high school came and things changed again.”

She tilted her head.

“He got hot, the bastard. And girls started swooning and his ego got bigger while at the same time he tried not being a big baby. He had his fair share of girlfriends and flings through high school but they weren’t anything real… That idiot always had his mind set on Ryuujin Nippon, on beating Ushijima and Kageyama and anyone else who stood in his way… And somewhere along the way I realised that I wanted him to notice _me_ instead.”

“You should’ve just kissed him, really, that gets the message across.”

Iwaizumi snorted. “That’s a Makki thing to do; I actually have game.”

She nodded. “Yeah, you’ve got a point.”

(Somewhere in Tokyo, Hanamaki sat upright in alert confusion. _Why the fuck were (Surname) and Iwaizumi talking shit about him?_ )

“So you settled for pining?”

“I was gonna tell him,” he argued, “I had it all planned out; we were going to beat Shiratorizawa at the Spring Inter-High and finally get to nationals, I was gonna tell him after the ceremony and have it be over and done with.”

“But?”

A sad smile spread across his lips.

“We lost. And his world was rocked in ways it didn’t need to be, he didn’t need my bullshit on top of his own.”

Iwaizumi gunned the rest of the sake, making the writer furrow her brows.

“And then he got a recommendation to Chuo, and life took its course.”

“But that’s even more of a reason to confess isn’t it? Graduation, separating of ways?”

“Did you expect me to give him my second button?” He asked sarcastically.

“Hey, that shit is sentimental and endearing as fuck.” She said, pointing her index finger at him accusingly.

“Sentimental and endearing, huh?”

She shrugged, finger still raised.

“I didn’t confess, obviously. But I did the next stupid thing.”

She waited.

“I did everything in my power to go to Tokyo with him.”

(Name) frowned disapprovingly, “Iwaizumi-san…”

“I know, I know,” he growled, head dropping from his palm and resting on the cold wood of the kotatsu. “And then he got scouted by Ryuujin Nippon mid-way through his first year at university and I just… I realised that no matter what was going to happen in this life, Oikawa Tooru would always leave me behind.”

The writer felt her mouth go dry, her tongue felt numb.

_You won’t need me when we get back to Tokyo…_

She swallowed the lump in her throat, pain following its course down.

“And yet you never found the need to get over him, huh?”

“We used to live together – moving out was my attempt.”

“Considering how often you seem to be around him, it’s like you never even left.”

“That’s only because of the knee injury – the idiot can’t look after himself so me makes me do it whether he knows it or not.”

“And even if he wasn’t injured?”

The spiker faltered, the both knew the answer to the question.

Iwaizumi Hajime would still be lingering around, regardless of the circumstances surrounding them.

She paused, a thought finally appearing in her mind. “Is he even-”

“Gay?” Iwaizumi poured another glass of sake. “If I can be perfectly honest, I’m not even sure he knows the answer himself.” The man laughed bitterly.

“I mean, you never know if you don’t try.”

“Is that the Writer’s Instinct saying that or not?”

“A little bit of everything really. Different strokes for different folks, and maybe he hasn’t pondered the thought before.”

She glanced at him from the corner of his eye.

“But despite all the people in this world, you’re still in love with him.”

Iwaizumi faltered, hands tightening around his cup.

“It’s one of those things, I guess,” he mused, taping his chin as he did. “We all have that one person we can never really get over.”

(Name) froze. A pair of large, amber eyes flashing in her mind, a soft smile, large hands that wandered-

“Moving on is rough.” The statement was breathy, nervous, and Iwaizumi chuckled.

“Mhm…” His gaze flittered to the right wall of the lounge room; the neighbouring wall to the subject’s apartment. “Guess that’s why my heart never agreed with the idea.”

“I’d never pin you for a softie, Iwaizumi-san… You never seemed the tsundere type.”

He reached over and flicked her across the forehead and, much to his dismay, immediately proved the point she was making.

Love made you do things you shouldn’t; (Name) had become very familiar with that idea over the course of a few weeks.

Often, that meant putting in more effort than necessary.

And with insecurity problems mixing with the natural allure of someone who was the textbook definition of the Pretty Boy™, it was clear that the setter was a little more trouble than he was worth for the spiker.

“So what’s your plan of action, then?” She inquired, looking at him from across the way. He looked back, confused. “You arrive at my door, you obviously need something, and you ask about the state of Limpy next door. You’re tryna get a read on the situation and then save the day. This screams ‘I’m making a plan and need help’.”

The spiker drummed his fingers against the side of the glass, trying to read the clouded (e/c) irises that bore holes into his being.

(Name)’s eyes narrowed ever so slightly, catching a flash of emotion in the olive.

“I’m wrong.”

It was a statement, no need for confirmation, and Iwaizumi believed for a brief moment that he was the easiest person to read on the planet.

He wasn’t. He knew that.

(Surname) (Name) was just better than him.

“Do you really want to know?”

“Not particularly, no.” She dismissed, lips wrapping around the rim of her glass.

“He loves you.”

(Name) would have choked on her drink had she not stopped tilting the glass. Instead she paused, the bitter liquid brushing on her upper lip as she remained stock-still.

“ _Oikawa loves you_.”

He repeated it again – he didn’t need to, she had heard him perfectly fucking fine the first time – but the way his eyes hardened was enough for her to know that he wasn’t doing it for her, it was for him.

As if he needed the reminder that his love had finally reached the point of no return.

The writer pulled the glass away, wiping the remnants of sake from her mouth as she laid the cup back down.

“What is this, a shoujo manga?”

“I wouldn’t be surprised, some days he looks like he walked straight out of one.”

“Your gay is showing, Iwaizumi-san.”

He kicked her in the shin.

“Not gonna lie, I was expecting a bit more of a reaction.”

He scoffed. “Who do you take me for, Mattsun?”

(Not too far away from Hanamaki, Matsukawa found himself glaring instinctively in time with the other male. _Were Iwaizumi and (Name) actually talking shit about them?_ )

“That still doesn’t answer the big fucking question.”

“Which is?”

“How _the fuck_ did you reach that conclusion?”

Iwaizumi opened his mouth to respond, only to have the words die in his throat as he took a good look at the expression the writer wore.

It was, undoubtedly, the most animated he had ever seen the woman that evening – perhaps even in the time they had known each other, easily beating out the fury and anger she had adorned on her features after the encounter with her father.

(Name) was in disbelief, pure shock and confusion painting itself across every bit of free landscape on her face.

And then he saw it, the brief millisecond of dread, where her face paled and the light drained away from her eyes.

“What ever happened between you and that Bokuto guy really put him on edge.”

She blinked, eyes widening even more.

“That’s not possible because nothing happened between Bokuto and I.”

He narrowed his eyes.

“He seemed pretty irked.”

“Apparently that’s his natural state of being when it comes to people like me… You of all people would know that.”

“It’s the strongest he’s reacted to a situation with a girl in his entire life.”

“That’s an exaggeration.”

“It’s the truth.”

“He’s a fantastic liar, you of all people would know that.”

“And what makes you think that I’d be the type to fall for his lies?”

She shrugged. “You fell in love with him, didn’t you?”

The black-haired man tensed his back, squaring his shoulders and clenching his jaw from the jab she had made. “That’s besides the point.”

“So what _is_ the point, then? Because contrary to popular belief I’m not that smart when it comes to Other People if I don’t get the lay of the land.”

Iwaizumi dropped his head a little, and (Name) barely caught the glimpse of the saddened smile adorning his handsome features.

“I wanted to know… I wanted to see if you felt the same way Oikawa did but now I see that that wasn’t the case.”

“And then what?”

“I was gonna take that as my cue to give up.” They locked eyes, and (Name) felt chills down her spine as the olive eyes hardened in intensity. “It felt like maybe I could step away from him, y’know? Like maybe this was fate’s chance to let me cut ties with the bastard but…”

“But if I don’t love him then you don’t have to let go.” She finished for him, watching as his lips pulled together tighter. “It’s not healthy to hang on to something like this, even if it is a first love.”

“Don’t you think I know that?”

“Sometimes we need a push in the right direction.”

(Name) faltered, and she moved her hand to rest on his shoulder.

“I don’t have feelings for Limpy, you can rest easy knowing that. And as long as I’ve known him he doesn’t seem to have any positive feelings towards me.”

“And yet you talk often.”

“Obligation is a curious thing Iwaizumi-san, and guilt is an emotion that should not be reckoned with. I don’t want Mattsun and Hanamaki on my ass because I can’t help their friend when he’s less than a few metres away.”

“And that’s all there is to it?”

“That’s all there ever is to civility.”

The spiker pivoted his body so he could face the writer head on, brushing her hand off of his shoulder.

“Do you know why I think Makki and Mattsun asked you to look out for Oikawa for us?”

She tilted her head in response. “They’re lazy and have other things to deal with.”

“Because you guys are really fucking similar.”

The writer shook her head. “That’s not necessarily a good thing, having two people like us around each other.”

“Maybe you should be focusing not on how you’re similar, but rather on how you _aren’t_.”

(Name) frowned at him, averting her eyes. For once in her life, she hadn’t the courage to look someone in the eyes with her usual defiance – her usual laissez-faire attitude would not get her through this interaction, would not pull her through.

She had to care about this.

Iwaizumi was trying to get her to care.

“I’m already doing that whole self-reflection thing already, I don’t need anything else on my plate right now.” Her hands tightened around the glass, raising it to her lips so she could down the rest of her sake.

And then it was quiet, silent, the stagnant air engulfed their bodies as the two adults sat together in mutual stillness.

A knee knocked against hers, jolting her out of her stupor. (Name) looked up towards her guest, whose eyes were slowly glazing over with a little more sadness than she had initially seen in him.

Iwaizumi’s mouth opened, then closed, stammering in silence while the words formulated in his mind.

“Please… Look after him better than I ever did.”

Her lips formed a tight line and she shook her head.

“You and I both know that’s not my job.”

“It’s not mine either.”

“I don’t think that’s ever stopped you before.”

A quirk of a smile appeared on the tanned man’s face.

He hesitated for a second before replying with a soft “I’ll be off then”, standing up and beginning his retreat out of her apartment.

She turned her body slightly, craning her head to follow his moving figure.

“Hey, Iwaizumi.”

His footsteps stalled, sock clad feet padding against the floorboards.

“Don’t fuck it up for yourself… You deserve a chance.”

(Name) felt her own saddened smile on her lips.

“Have a good night (Surname).”

He didn’t look back.

 

* * *

 

 

“You’ve gone absolutely insane.”

“Probably.”

“You’re out of your mind.”

“Not surprising.”

“You’re drunk.”

“I mean, when am I not?”

“You’ve gotta help me understand, (Surname), because I am confused as fuck right now.”

“What part of ‘Limited Printing’ did you not understand?”

“The entire fucking sentiment!”

The writer pinched the bridge of her nose, glaring at the phone that lay on her kotatsu. The screen ticked along with the time of the call, currently cresting at 10 minutes. Hanamaki’s name was displayed above it

“This isn’t an official novel I agreed to release in my contract, there’s no point in treating it like one.”

“Hisakawa’s gonna take that as ‘I know this book isn’t good enough and I’m ashamed of myself’.”

“Again, Hisakawa can fuck his own Assakawa for all I care. My anthology, my decision, and if he wants to be a dick then he can suck my figurative one.”

There was a bit of scrambling on the other side of the line, and (Name) sighed deeply as she heard the low rumble of Hanamaki’s voice reverberate through the speaker.

“(Name), I’m serious.”

“I am too, and trust me this is for the best.”

“A book with no promotion and limited copies is dead in the water, no good is going to come from this.”

“Maybe, probably not.”

Hanamaki sighed her name again, voice dropping into a low whisper. He was most likely at the office, and the walls at the Kodansha building weren’t exactly the thickest.

“I know people think I’m a pretty smart guy-”

“No one has thought that ever-”

“But I’m not _you_ smart… Whatever’s going through your head, I really need to know.”

The writer scratched the nape of her neck, brief snippets of explanation flashing through her mind.

“There’s only so much left to do with my career, Hanamaki. People have me pinned as one of the greatest and I’ve only been around for two years. There isn’t a point in going on, y’know? And maybe this is how I ease out of it all.”

Hanamaki frowned. “There’s more to this stupid plan of yours, I can tell.”

Her jaw clenched.

“If I’m so good, it’ll sell. There’s not point in being the best if I can’t prove it with a spectacle.”

There was silence on the other side of the call.

“Are you alright…?”

Hesitance.

That was the first thing (Name) noticed, the next being the shuffling of the receiver around the editor’s face.

“Did something happen? This is very unlike you… to be so upfront about your work and popularity when you never once gave a shit about it. And you had so much hope in this anthology so I don’t… I don’t understand.” His voice dropped in volume. “Did Hisakawa say something? Did _Oikawa_ say something?”

She shook her head, though she knew very well he wouldn’t have known.

Hanamaki was right in that this was unlike her, but the reasoning was all wrong. Things needed to change, and for once (Name) needed to take matters into her own hands.

Life was changing, her world would not be the same.

If this was the end of the line, maybe she needed to carve her own path forward.

 

* * *

 

 

He wasn’t in love with her.

He was sure of it.

Oikawa Tooru didn’t have time for love.

And he was certain that a woman like (Surname) (Name) was not actively looking for it either.

So why was it that he could not stop thinking? Why couldn’t he turn his brain off and focus on things that _actually mattered_?

Like the looming shadow of the Asia Games.

Or his recent training session with the Panasonic Panthers

The lack of a love life should have been the least of his worries and yet they took prominence at the forefront of his mind.

He wasn’t in love with her.

His mind was playing tricks on him.

This was Iwa-chan’s fault.

 _This was Tarou-chan’s fault_.

Oikawa turned into the konbini, picking up one of the small baskets positioned at the entrance.

His feet guided him aimlessly through the aisles, body moving on auto-pilot as he lost his mind to thought.

The reason he cared so heavily was because of obligation – out of guilt. Mattsun had made it clear earlier that year that he needed to watch out for her, to keep an eye out on his own actions so he didn’t fuck it up for her – for himself.

There wasn’t anything appealing about her, not in the way Iwa-chan seemed to suggest, and definitely not in the way Tarou-chan had seemed to be enamoured by.

Writer-chan was a hassle, there was no doubt about it. And whatever feelings Iwa-chan thought he had for her were false and unfounded and downright _wrong_.

People like _her_ were not the type of people he would associate with.

Geniuses had no right to be a substantial part of his Game of Life ™.

The setter frowned – there wasn’t any reason for him to be so invested in the actions of a woman he didn’t know. Even if these actions involved one of his good friends (perhaps even _all_ of his friends).

So perhaps then it was best he subtracted himself from the equation entirely.

The woman in question appeared to be fine, even after the one night stand (was it a one night stand? Oikawa hadn’t been able to confirm it, but the evidence pointed to a ‘yes’ and that was good enough for him), and neither Makki nor Mattsun had mentioned a drop in mood or productivity with the writer. And, by extension of that, neither had the gall to blame him for the problems in her life.

Surely it would be appropriate to stand back and let life unfold.

Especially with the looming month of August around the corner, and the possibility that maybe Coach Nagakaichi would put in him the starting line up for the Asia Games.

Oikawa approached the counter, dropping the filled basket on to the flat surface of the register.

“Good evening Yamashita-chan~”

The teenager startled from the intrusion, eyes flickering around wildly from the book that once obscured her face. It clattered on to the counter out of her grasp, and the young woman stood upright as she faced her client. “Oh, Oikawa-san, good evening. I-I didn’t see you, my apologies.”

On instinct, the young woman began scanning items, bagging them into the small plastic bag off to the side of the register. Her caramel hair was not pulled up tightly into a ponytail this time around, instead a low bun at the nape of her neck. The stray hairs seemed to double at her startled response.

“No problem Yama-chan, you seemed a little...preoccupied.”

Oikawa’s gaze filtered down from her teenager to the book that lay forgotten on the counter. His hand moved of its own according, turning it right side up so he could read the title.

_‘Dragon Tears’_

(Surname) (Name)

He frowned.

_Even her titles are unimaginative._

“Say, Yama-chan,” Oikawa rested his cheek in the palm of his hand, “what’s so great about (Surname)-sensei?”

Yamashita froze, the bottle of soy sauce she had finished scanning was poised over the somewhat full plastic bag.

“What do you mean, Oikawa-san?”

“I don’t see the appeal,” he admitted, turning his gaze away, “maybe its because we know each other but (Surname) doesn’t seem to be all that.”

A look that could only be described as forlorn appeared on the cashier’s features.

“That’s true… She’s not.” Yamashita placed the bottle into the bag. “But that’s what makes her so great.”

Oikawa raised an eyebrow at her. She continued to scan the items.

“Japanese is a difficult language, and it takes years to master the more complex kanji and vocabulary and yet… (Surname)-sensei can do that, but she doesn’t need any of that; she uses the right word in the right places without much difficulty – they’re always the simplest words, never anything too complicated or hard to read. And her writing is always really relatable, like she knows how everyone grew up and what experiences we all had, and what we all think about the world and the questions we have. And her characters… You understand all their motivations as well – the choices make sense and their actions are logical and that makes them seem all the more real when you read.

“It makes you feel like you're not alone, like someone understands you and won’t judge you for what you think… And it’s because _she_ thinks the same things you do.”

The beeps from her scanner stopped if but for a moment.

“You’ve never read any of her works have you?”

Yamashita smiled at him wearily, knowingly. Oikawa didn’t reply.

“That’s what everyone says when they don’t know about (Surname)-sensei and her work.” She emptied out the last contents of the basket, continuing her task.

“The attitude is more than off-putting.”

“Understandable.” Yamashita nodded in agreement. “(Surname)-sensei is rough around the edges but her words are refined and clear. Which is a shame, really. If she were more like the words she wrote on a page then more people would like her. But I don’t think that really matters to (Surname)-sensei, whether she’s likeable or not I mean.”

“Oh?”

“She seems like the type to only care about her writing rather than what people think of it. Whenever I compliment her she never really responds… I use to think that was just her being rude but after listening to a few of her interviews I realised that she really isn’t concerned with success or friendship or companionship; it’s like she’s writing for the sake of telling a story. She’s selfish in that sense – like she’s only doing things for her own happiness – and that makes her pretty cool if you ask me.”

Oikawa fell silent. Though he had been the one to initiate the conversation, he hadn’t anticipated the girl to speak so openly – so freely – about the writer.

“The total is ¥3200 Oikawa-san, by cash or by card?”

The setter blinked, startled by the way she had carried on without any recoil. He nodded wordlessly, placing the exact change on to the small plastic tray that lay to his left. Yamashita took the money, inserting it into the cash drawer of the register before she closed it, dropping the receipt into the bag and handing over his items across the counter.

He grabbed the handles of the bags and began walking to the exit, stopping himself as the automatic doors slid open.

“You don’t talk to her often, do you?”

Yamashita frowned and shook her head, “Not up until recently, no. Before then she wouldn’t really try. But ever since that guy was with her-”

“Guy?”

“Mhm, the one with black and white hair – she’s been a little more responsive to when I ask her questions about her work.” The teenager grinned. “It’s always nice when someone cares about you, even if they really shouldn’t.”

The setter nodded slowly, unsurely, before announcing his thanks and exiting the store.

For the remainder of his journey home, Oikawa pondered the concept of caring, and whether or not he actually had that capability at all.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a bit on the shorter side, I know buuuut still, a little development never hurt anybody.
> 
> And though Pining!Iwaizumi isn't my favourite Iwaizumi, he's too relatable sometimes like excuse u can u not be so in love with Trashykawa cause same.
> 
> Also~ We might be back to monthly updates because I start second year of university tomorrow and I might just die from the stress ahahaha endmysufferingplease-  
> But I'll try to be frequent since oh man, we're a little over half way and there is still much to do oh yes indeed.
> 
> Thank you for +100 kudos and+2000 reads holy shitjvfsdfvlegsejdnvj ngl I almost starting crying at work when I saw that. Please continue to comment and leave kudos if you enjoyd; the comments will keep my sane i promise. <3 <3


	19. Repercussions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Every worst case scenario entered his mind.
> 
> _Makki's pregnant, and me made me the godfather, sorry_
> 
> _I'm pregnant, it's yours._
> 
> _I'm pregnant, it's Mattsun's._
> 
> //
> 
> The writer looked at where their hands joined, and then to the framed photo of the two of them, unable to stop herself from sighing out loud.
> 
> “Yeah… I am too.”

_July, 2018_

To say that Oikawa Tooru was a man of patience would be a lie.

He was a greedy person, a hungry man who wanted whatever the world could give him on a platter.

But life made him wait – his knee made him take things slower than he usually would – and if he was honest he thought that there would be no way his life could return to the tempo it once was.

And then July happened, came in hot and fast the way one anticipated summer to do.

Coach Nagakaichi pulled him aside at morning practice, interrupting his warm up, face void of emotion, of any give that would clue him in on what he was in for.

Did they find about the incident last month? Were they not happy with his improvement? Had he bombed that physical his trainer made him do last week? How does one even bomb a physical?

The door to the Head Coach’s office shut with a heavy thud behind the setter, and Oikawa slowly turned on his heel to face the greying man.

He had anticipated a look of disappointment, a worst case scenario mindset which he determined justified.

He was met, instead, with a proud grin.

“They said it couldn’t be done with how badly you tore your ACL but look at you, walking, serving, setting all as if nothing has changed for you.” Nagakaichi began, arms folded in front of his chest. “You’d have to be blind not to notice the improvements – hell, I think your form has gotten better even after the injury!”

Oikawa blinked, confused by the change in atmosphere.

“We don’t want to get too greedy with the line-up, son, especially since Kageyama’s on top of his game and he’s synced up nicely with our offensive starting rotation.” Oikawa tried not to wince at the revelation. “But it would be stupid of me not to put you out there when I know you can handle yourself.”

The setter blinked.

This was a joke. Some twisted joke.

“You mean…”

“You’re coming to Jakarta with us, we’re gonna need a canon of a pinch server in order to secure a gold medal.”

The words rung loud in his ear, the vibration sending shockwaves through his system.

Pinch server.

It wasn’t a starter.

But _fuck_ – it was better than nothing.

“We might need your setting prowess as well – Kageyama is good but the Under 19s is a whole different league when compared to an Olympic-level competition. You’re gonna have to pull your weight-”

“I can do it.” He interjected, puffing out his chest slightly as his demeanour swelled with pride. “I’ll be ready for it, you can count on me Coach.”

The older gentlemen grinned, leaning over to clap a hand on his shoulder and jostling the star player around a bit.

“That’s what I like to hear Oikawa,” Nagakaichi chuckled, “I knew I could count on you.”

The brunet’s throat tightened, he was being _relied on_ – people were actually _confident in his capabilities as a setter_ -

Why was he suddenly emotional?

What was this, high school?

“Now get back out there and start practice,” Nagakaichi’s voice shattered his train of thought once again. “Your happiness should mean that you start training even harder, you’ve got something to play for now.”

Oikawa felt his mouth drop open before he shut it quickly, nodding his head up and down while he flexed out the tense joints in this fingers. “You got it, Coach!”

He needed to work.

Maybe a bit more overtime was needed, just to get back into the swing of things.

 

* * *

 

The first thing he did was run home.

Actually, the first thing he did was sprint a victory lap around Mejirodai, not caring how strange he looked in the eye of the casual passer-by. He was going to Jakarta – he was on the team in an _official international match_ who the fuck cared about what other people thought of him at this point!

The next thing he did was run home, and he was prepared to follow it up by calling Iwa-chan, by rubbing it his best friend’s face that he was fine and that hard-work actually did pay off so all that coddling was pointless in the long run.  

As he rounded the corner of the stairwell and emerged on to the fourteenth floor, his gaze met with a familiar pair of olive green eyes-

“Iwa-chan! Just the gorilla I wanted to see!”

The chocolate-haired male bounded over to the tanned man, throwing an arm around his shoulders as he fumbled for his keys.

“We’ve gotta celebrate – I think I have a bottle of something from graduation lying around – life’s actually working out for me, can you believe it?”

Iwaizumi remained stone faced – he was always rather stoic when it came to Oikawa’s Moods™ – not bothering to indulge the setter too early in the conversation. If he did he wouldn’t receive a proper answer, and it was always easier to go along with the setter’s plans than it was to try and fight him for something.

“What happened this time?” He asked, coldly.

“Something _amazing_ ~”

“Did Kageyama fall over or something?”

“No, but that would have been the cherry on top of the cake – oh my God I should have tripped him after I found out-”

Iwaizumi shoved the setter with his elbow, not catching the way the latter almost toppled over the step in his genkan. Instead he kept his gaze averted, shrugging off shoes and donning the slippers in an uneasy silence.

If Oikawa was in his usual state of mind he would have noticed the signs sooner.

But he wasn’t.

He was _fucking ecstatic_.

Iwaizumi found himself with a glass filled with bubble, the tinge of gold to the sake made the palm of his hand pressed against the glass look darker. Or maybe it was the shadow of his palm that made the drink look cloudy.

He didn’t care much for the specifics, instead choosing to focus on the way Oikawa was shining like a lighthouse on a dark night, on the way his dark brown eyes looked much lighter, on the way his whole appearance looked a lot more ethereal – as if a weight had been lifted off of his shoulders.

“What’s the news, then?”

Oikawa dropped into the dining chair opposite his best friend, his own drink in hand and the opened bottle of sake  resting between the two of them on the oak table.

“Guess who got confirmed a position in the Asia Games?”

There was a second of silence before Oikawa piped up with a cheerful “Me!”, but a second was all it took.

It only took the brief gap in conversation for dread to entire Iwaizumi’s system for the umpteenth time in his friendship – his relationship (or lack thereof) – with Oikawa Tooru.

“That’s great.”

“C’mon Iwa-chan, give me something else to work with! I thought you’d be a bit happier for me, or at least angry that they’re putting me to work so close to my recovery.”

“I’m a little annoyed, yeah-”

“Well too bad because I’m going even if you want me too or not~” Oikawa poked out his tongue and pulled his bottom right eyelid down in a taunting, making noises as a means to provoke the male a little more.

It irked him, sure.

But not nearly enough.

Oikawa stopped, tip of his pink tongue still poking out.

“What’s got your boxers in a bind? You do know that if you frown like that you look even uglier, Ugly Iwa-chan?”

Iwaizumi refrained from wincing at the side comment.

 _He doesn’t mean it, let it go, get this over and done with and leave_.

“Just needed to tell you something.”

“That you’ve decided sports journalism isn’t for you and that you want to play volleyball again, I mean I can pull some strings-”

“Tooru.”

The setter froze, whatever light-hearted quip died on his tongue.

Iwa-chan never called him Tooru.

“Don’t freak out.” He began.

“That’s the perfect way to get someone to freak out, Iwa-chan-”

“You can’t do your usual bullshit to avoid this, yeah?” He continued, not bothering to indulge him. “You just need to sit there and take it because you really needed to hear this from me – and not anyone else.”

Every worst case scenario entered his mind, a roulette wheel of options while his sanity became the peg that would determine the fate of what they were to be.

_Your landlord called me and you’re overdue on rent._

_I’m moving to Antarctica, don’t follow me._

_Makki’s pregnant, and he made me the godfather, sorry._

_I’m pregnant, it’s yours._

_I’m pregnant, it’s Mattsun’s._

_Writer-chan is way cooler than you and I like her more than you._

_I’m giving up on volleyball entirely._

_I’m giving up on_ _you_ _entirely._

The ace sighed, not bothering to wait for the setter to complete whatever mental preparation he was undergoing

It was now or never.

_Just rip the band-aid off Hajime, one clean pull._

“I love you.”

Oikawa blinked.

Then Iwaizumi.

Oikawa.

Iwaizumi

Oikawa.

Iwaizumi.

Oikawa-

“You’re in love with _me_ -?!”

Iwaizumi winced. “Sure, just out me to your entire fucking apartment Shittykawa, that’s _exactly_ what I wanted!”

Oikawa’s heart thumped rapidly against his ribcage, blood pressure rising and heat running up his neck and into his cheeks.

Iwa-chan.

No.

This wasn’t happening.

This _couldn’t_ be happening.

Was it obvious?

How did he not realise?

How had he not realised?

Did other people know?

Who knew?

Makki? Mattsun? That made sense, they talked to Iwa-chan more about Emotions™ and less about Business™.

Did they keep this from him on purpose?

Did _Iwa-chan_ keep this from him on purpose?

_Why would Iwa-chan keep something as important as his feelings away from him?_

_Especially when he himself is the cause of said emotions?_

Something bubbled in his stomach, a strange concoction of emotions that tasted red on his tongue.

He was angry – angry because people weren’t taking him seriously, because people he trusted lied to him-

_And for what?_

Oikawa blinked slowly, trying to let his still reeling mind calm down and settle after the one-two punch that was the ace’s confession.

“How long?”

No reply.

_“How long?”_

Iwaizumi shrugged, and Oikawa barely caught the moment in the corner of his vision.

“I don’t think it takes that long to fall in love.” He admitted, face adorned with a wistful smile.

“And you’ve kept it to yourself? For all these years?” The words were breathy, a little unstable. Iwaizumi wasn’t sure if they were shaky from anger or shaky from disbelief.

He caught a glimpse of brown and knew.

Disbelief.

“I did what I needed to do.”

“Do you know what you’ve _just said to me_?”

“I confessed by pure, unadulterated, undying love to you in the most masculine way possible-”

“You’ve broken the laws of our friendship that we are honest with each other _no matter what_ , Iwa-chan!”

“Like you were honest 100% of the time-”

“That’s not the point-!”

“I didn’t want you to kno-”

“That you’re _gay_?” Oikawa scoffed. “I’m offended that you think I care about that – I don’t! I just hoped that you considered our friendship to mean more than just some stupid feelings-”

“That’s all you think my feelings are, stupid?”

“I didn’t say that-”

“Then the words ‘stupid’ and ‘feelings’ together don’t mean anything? Cause it sounds pretty fucking obvious that you aren’t taking this seriously-”

“And you keep avoiding the question! I just want to know why you didn’t bother to tell-”

“I didn’t want you to know _anything_ !” He snapped back, his free hand slamming the table, palm to wood. The sound made the setter jump slightly, but he steeled his wills in front of the spiker. “You just admitted emotions are bullshit, and with your track history you don’t take anything _I_ do or say seriously enough, so what made you think that I would tell you as an adult, let alone when you were some stupid, pubescent kid, or a bratty egotistic high schooler?”

Oikawa faltered for a second before he found his resolve.

“Because we’re friends-”

“And that’s all you _ever_ see from me.”

The brunet glowered.

“So why tell me now, then? What was there for you to gain out of all this… this _bullshit_ , then?”

Silence.

“What do you want from me, an answer?”

The ace remained dumb.

“Iwa-”

“I don’t need an answer.” Iwaizumi interjected firmly, the look in his eyes hardening slightly. “I don’t need a rejection… I just-”

He stopped.

“I know you don’t feel the same way and that you only ever considered us best friends, it’s hard not to know that. And I don’t need your pity – all that ‘Boohoo poor Hajime, pining over his best friend’ is bullshit and I don’t need it.”

He looked away.

“I just wanted you to know. I’ve been keeping this from you for years because I thought that that was best – you always had your mind set on representing Japan, on being the best, that I thought I would be even more of a distraction. And when we graduated I thought that you would find happiness somewhere else and forget about me, and maybe I’d forget about these feelings along the way. But I didn’t. And it’s not fair on you if I keep holding on to something that’s never gonna happen… Especially when the future is ready to catch you, no hesitation.”

Oikawa frowned.

“If this is about Writer-chan-”

“Say what you wanna say, and I’ll go along with it.” A sad smile adorned Iwaizumi’s face, complemented by exhausted eyes and a sinking feeling in his gut. “But this isn’t about you or her, this is about _me_ … And maybe I needed to take a page from your book and do what was best for myself.”

The voice of a younger Matsukawa echoed in his eardrums.

(“The Oikawa Tooru Approach”, that’s what he had called it back in their second year of high school, “the fool-proof plan to get through all of your pressing decisions. If it gets you the best result, sell your soul for it. If it makes you lose the match, leave it behind.”)

Oikawa swallowed the lump in his throat.

“That plan normally means that you end up doing something that makes you _happy_ , right Iwa-chan?”

“You forget that I’m not actually Oikawa Tooru.” He replied, letting his back relax and slack against the frame of the wooden chair.

“You could have kept going until I died… why didn’t you?”

The smile on Iwaizumi’s face pulled into a tight line. “Because one of us has to be the realist… And maybe I finally needed to confront the idea that there was no way in this life I would be with you in the way I wanted to.”

And then Oikawa saw it, the vulnerability his best friend had never wanted to show people. The same expression from all those years ago at their last Inter High Tournament.

_What are you so angry about? It can’t just be about the lie._

The question penetrated the wall of confusion that had quickly erected itself during the conversation.

It wasn’t like he was angry – like _actually angry_ – since he, for some strange reason, could not find it in himself to get angry at Iwa-chan.

No, no it wasn’t that.

They weren’t taking him _seriously_.

There was nothing worse to him than being brushed aside, than being dismissed for no good reason.

He knew this feeling, now.

It was frustration, frustration at the thought that he wasn’t trusted to control his emotions, wasn’t trust to even consider the feelings of someone else.

It was bullshit!

The memory of his graduation from university and Nagato Aiko appeared in his mind.

_Ah… maybe it was right of Iwa-chan to avoid the topic._

So what came next, he wondered, what was he meant to do – where were they meant to go?

Forwards? Backwards? Apart?

In that split second it dawned on him, that there would be no easy way to regress from this point – and that the awkward truth was Iwaizumi Hajime had loved Oikawa Tooru for longer than humanly possible, and Oikawa Tooru was oblivious and too focused on the path going forward to even focus on the one person who was always, _always_ by his side.

“So what next?” He breathed out, turning his head to try and meet Iwaizumi’s gaze.

“I don’t want this to change anything, yeah?” Iwaizumi shifted in place. “You deserved to know this because I wanted you to understand that I’m always going to love you; platonically, in that stupid friend way everyone thinks that I’ve loved you for the past twenty years of my life. We were best friend’s first and we still are; nothing changes that – not you, not me, not my dumb emotions, not Ryuujin Nippon-”

The words died on his lips.

 _Not (Surname)_.

Oikawa caught on to the unspoken ending, a little perturbed that the male in front of him was still so obviously caught up in whatever feelings he assumed he had for Writer-chan.

And a part of him wanted to press further, to know the intricacies of the lie his best friend had been living for the better half of their lives.

But he stopped himself.

Because Iwa-chan wanted to move on.

And Oikawa was a man of his word when it came to his best friend.

“If that’s what you want, then what kind of person would I be to decline?”

“I mean, you’re already a Shittykawa so there wouldn’t be much difference.”

“Mean Iwa-chan~” The setter whined, not before bringing his glass back up to his lips.

Iwaizumi flinched involuntarily, slightly off-put at the speed with which Oikawa reverted to his usual charming self. It hurt – by _fuck_ did it hurt to try and pretend that everything was okay – but he had asked for this.

 _He asked for this_.

This was the Oikawa Tooru Approach, and for someone who wasn’t Oikawa Tooru then the results never guaranteed happiness.

He wanted this.

_He needed this._

But for a brief second, Iwaizumi wasn’t sure if this was the right thing to do.

 

* * *

 

 

There were plenty of signs that things weren’t right on that day.

The short list of Naoki and Akutagawa Prizes was the most poignant.

Her name had appeared on both lists; the latter was an expected result, the former not so much.

‘Dragon Tears’ had been just as well received as ‘A Moth to Flame’; the critical reception had been on par with the debut work and the literary community had been harping on the obvious improvement in form and style that the woman had displayed.

She chose not to keep up with sales, but from the way she caught Hisakawa shining like an obnoxious beacon every few weeks she could only assume that they were more than fantastic.

(Name) had anticipated the nomination and short listing; an Akutagawa was a logical second step after winning the Oe.

But it was the Naoki that caught people off-guard – even herself and Hanamaki and Hisakawa.

Her nomination for the Naoki was for her anthology. Several articles called bullshit – frankly she did as well – because the short listing for both prizes took, at minimum, 6 months, and for a book that was only released at the end of June to be placed there was outrageous.

And while outrageous, others argued that it was justified.

(Surname) (Name) was a rising star, a growing icon in the industry that deserved the fruits of her labour in all forms – prizes or sales or acclaim otherwise.

(Name) hated to admit it, but the anthology had been in the public more than ‘Dragon Tears’ when one compared their releases. From the day it had been placed on the shelves of bookstores across the country, there was immediate coverage when critics and reviews discovered the “surprise release from the illustrious (Surname)-sensei”, spouting praise that she would have preferred her _actual novels_ received and harping on about how anyone who was anyone should get their hands on a copy. By the end of the June, the first copies from the very initial run of the anthology had sold hour.

Within the first week of July, the book had a confirmed four more print runs and a backlog of pre-orders of people attempting to secure their own copy.

The rational, more grounded part of her conscious told her that the backlog was most likely due to the limited printing she had requested, was due to her stubbornness.

(Hanamaki and Hisakawa had a collective heart-attack when she dismissed the thought of increasing the run size.)

“10,000 is a good well-rounded number,” she shrugged, “why would I bump it up to 20,000 for an anthology? That’s too excessive; the hype will die down in a week.”

(It hadn’t, and they tried another appeal but she remained obstinate.)

A smaller part of her argued that maybe, just maybe, that many people wanted to read her work because they believed it was good; that they weren’t riding along the wave of  that attention surrounded it, that maybe she was as good as people told her she was.

But hype was hype – and most things with that kind of cult-like attention lasted for fifteen minutes and then died in a ditch in the middle of nowhere.

Hanamaki had been ecstatic – he had come to be more expressive the longer their working relationship continued – and eagerly organised interviews and signings to help with the sudden surge of attention for both works.

Most interviews asked about the anthology, to her dismay, and she often responded with the same vague answer of “The poems mean what they mean, and it differs from person to person.”

Analysis had arisen from literary scholars and critics alike, even a few university students had begun to write their interpretations on her works.

They all had the same thing to say;

_“The return to the old style of (Surname)-sensei’s writing is a needed change when compared to her current works. A blast from the past, one that brings with it the sentimentality of life as we know it, and as we wish it was.”_

For what it was worth, her premonition of the anthology had come true. People considered this to be her best work and yet...

And yet she still remained unsatisfied.

The anthology had sold out, and had proved her point to Hisakawa that no matter what she published, there would be an audience for it. And ‘Dragon Tears’ was doing just as phenomenally, feeding off the attention of its successor in the subtlest of ways.

So why wasn’t she fulfilled?

What was she still missing?

Her phone chimed, waking her from her stupor.

**Bokuto Koutarou:**

_I heard about the nominations. (7:46pm)_

_You free? (7:46pm)_

She hesitated.

(Name) hadn’t had any plans for the day, choosing to stay low from both Hanamaki and the public. People were draining, and there was only so much socialising she could do in a day.

But this was Bokuto.

Her heart lurched, reading his messages again.

And then she did something dumb.

_What’s up? (7:47pm)_

As soon as she sent her response, a call came through, his name displayed on the top of the screen while the image of his smiling face filled what was once an empty void.

She answered.

“You called?”

“Dinner, on me.”

Bokuto’s voice was a hushed whisper, hasty, as if he were a child going against his parent’s wishes.

“Bokuto…”

“I’ll swing by yours, I’ll pay for dinner – fuck I’ll pay for your taxi trip home just-”

There was movement on the other side of the line, and (Name) heard him inhale sharply and hold it in his lungs. For some reason, she found herself doing the same.

There was silence.

Silence.

A footstep.

More silence.

And then he spoke again, voice even quieter than the first time.

“I just want to see you.” He sighed in defeat. “No, I _need_ to see you-”

“Yo Bo, you in there?”

(Name) heard the spiker fumble with the phone, barely catching his parting words before the line when dead.

“Tomorrow, I promise.”

She held the phone to her ear for a little while longer before deciding to let it go.

 

* * *

 

She never caught up with Bokuto in person.

Circumstances never let their paths cross, fate never giving them the chance to get closure face to face.

(Name) wasn’t sure whether she was content or upset with the fact, but life had kept pushing her forwards.

There wasn’t time for regret anymore, for wondering ‘what if’ and ‘maybe’.

Not until a familiar dark-haired setter appeared on her doorstep one evening.

It had rained that day, a peculiar summer shower from an unexpected trough of cold air.

That should have been her first sign.

“Always good to see you Akaashi-san.”

His dark eyes met hers, and he smiled politely in response.

“Sorry for the intrusion, I know it’s late-”

“As if time means anything when you’re writing all day.” She dismissed, holding the door open a little wider. “Come in, please, would you like a drink?”

“Tea, if you have.”

“Sure, take a seat.”

Akaashi followed her in, staying a few steps behind her before she veered into the kitchen while he assumed a position on her couch.

The first thing he had noticed was how homely the apartment felt then when compared to his last visit to the apartment. He couldn’t name the cause of the change at first.

And then he saw a thick, yellow photo album sat next to a sleek silver picture frame; man and woman, standing in front of a field of pink moss.

The writer returned a few moments later, handing him a white ceramic mug and taking a seat next to him. She hadn’t gotten anything for herself.

“To what do I owe the pleasure?” She inquired, training her eyes on him as he took a slow sip.

“I wanted to congratulate you on the nominations. To have a Naoki and an Akutagawa nomination in your second year in the industry is truly a feat of greatness.”

She smiled, though the happiness didn’t reach her eyes. Akaashi didn’t comment on it. “Nominations are simply that, there was no need for you to come out this way to say that.”

“If that was the only reason then perhaps… But I’m here to ask a favour of you.”

(Name) tilted her head to the right ever so slightly.

“Yes?”

“Please stay away from Bokuto-san.”

She blinked, startled by the sudden strength in the setter’s voice.

“That sounds more like a demand than a favour, Akaashi-san.”

“Does it have to be one for you to comply?”

(Name) settled back into the sofa, “I’m sensing a lot of hostility here…”

“I didn’t intend for it to sound that way, (Surname)-sensei, but understand that this is for the best.”

“Even throwing in _sensei_ instead of _san_ – you _must_ be upset with me.”

They locked eyes, and (Name) found herself unable to read the stoic man. She hadn’t been familiar with this side of him – the free-wheeling, slightly intoxicated Akaashi Keiji yes – and the writer was unsure of where this conversation would go.

But the first step to any conversation like _this_ was to stand on equal ground.

“What’s he told you?”

“Not a lot, which is uncharacteristic for Bokuto-san since he tells both Kuroo-san and I everything.” The younger man explained.

(Name) looked at him curiously, knowing very well that this was not the complete story.

“He had fallen into what we thought was one of his Normal Moods towards the end of May, but he told Kuroo-san he had a fall out with you not long before. And then as soon as June hit he had finally bounced back, only to disappear to Osaka for four days with you and come back in a rut worse than the one that preceded it. It’s safe to say anyone who knows Bokuto-san personally would consider that rapid swing a little more than alarming.

“But again, he hasn’t told me specifics, nor has he divulged Kuroo-san with what happened about thing that followed his rejection. As far as we were concerned he was fine, you were fine, and things had finally gotten back to normal. We don’t know what happened – or the truth had the very least - but the only common denominator in the equation, (Surname)-sensei, has been you.”

She frowned.

“If it’s any consolation, we haven’t seen each other since we got back from Osaka.” She informed.

“But do you know how often we have to stop him from coming to win you over anyway?”

She looked down to her phone on the kotatsu, her finger itched slightly. Suddenly his text and phone call from a few days prior made sense.

Akaashi straightened his back out.

“Please understand that this drama is taxing for most people involved. Kuroo-san and I can only keep him stable for so long before he dips into a bad mood swing, and we can only do so much to get him into a good one. And this is only going to get harder now that Kuroo-san has signed on to a different V-League team and I must finish my degree. It may sound rude, (Surname)-sensei, but your presence in his life is currently doing more harm than help.”

“So it’s my fault?”

Akaashi shook his head.

“I didn’t mean for this to sound like I’m blaming you – I’m not, really. If anything, Bokuto-san has more of the blame to carry when compared to you. You are entitled to your feelings and who they are for, so what you do or say is not any of my particular business. What is my business is the rare occasion my friend gets so high strung over the possibility of someone he may never get over and has no real intention of letting go for their own good.”

“And telling me to stay away is the solution, yes?”

“It’s the beginning,” he hummed, “It’s just a means of waning Bokuto-san off of your ever-present… presence.” Akaashi glanced around, eyes landing on the photo he caught when he first entered. (Name) followed his gaze, lips pulling into a tight line. “And maybe it will be good for you too…”

She weighed the words in her mind. Maybe this was for the best.

But then what was she to do with the place she carved out for him?

How do you go back what once was when you were constantly going forwards?

She cleared her throat.

“We all want what’s best for Bo-”

“And perhaps your absence is what’s best for him.” Akaashi interjected. “Just until he comes to terms with the reality that you aren’t – that you _can’t_ be – his.”

There was a break in the conversation, and (Name) swore she heard something shatter in the darkest recesses of her mind.

 _The reality that you aren’t – that you can’t be – his_.

As if they were ever each other’s in the first place.

Her hand twitched, and for a moment (Name) swore she felt a pulse from underneath where it lay. As if she could still feel the man’s heart beating.

“He really does love you…”

Akaashi’s voice cut through like a knife.

“And I’m sure you feel some small ounce of affection back. But neither of you deserve the hurt of wanting and never having. Trust me.”

(Name) didn’t reply.

It wasn’t like the revelation was shocking – she knew how Bokuto felt about her, and she knew where she stood when it came to how she felt about him.

And maybe it was the circumstances, maybe she was still reeling from the news of the Naoki and Akutagawa, but in that moment the younger male was making sense.

This needed to happen.

This wasn’t a matter of pride anymore, this was rationality coming into the fray and making her understand.

There were always more parties involved when it came to love, it any of its forms.

For Bokuto, it was his best friends, his teammates, the opportunity of success for not only those people but for _himself_.

For (Name)-

The stakes weren’t as high as for her as they were for him.

She had nothing left to lose, had nothing left to gain.

But Bokuto, in comparison, would lose everything.

(Name) breathed in deeply through her nose, letting the fresh air clear her hazy mind.

Bokuto Koutarou was more important than she ever would be.

(Name) didn’t matter.

He came first.

Always.

Even if it meant sacrificing whatever comfort – whatever _solace_ – she had found within herself over these past few months.

“I’ll keep my distance.” She agreed firmly, resolutely.

Akaashi sighed in relief and bowed his head into a nod. “Thank you, (Surname)-sensei.”

“But if he comes to me-”

“I trust you will act accordingly around Bokuto-san,” he smiled tiredly, “and Kuroo-san and I will try our best in helping him heal while away from you.”

_Please don’t make this harder than it must be._

“Believe me when I say that I want you to be happy as well, (Surname)-sensei. I consider you a friend but-”

“Bokuto Koutarou comes first.” She concluded, lips pulling themselves into a tight line. “He should… He deserves it…”

A small pang of guilt erupted in Akaashi’s chest, lips pulling into a slight frown. He reached out to pat her hand.

“I’m sorry. Really. I am.”

The writer looked at where their hands joined, and then to the framed photo of the two of them, unable to stop herself from sighing out loud.

“Yeah… I am too.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh man, oh boy, oh man oh my oh man guess who should have been doing her readings and wrote this instead??  
> Wild, right? I'm still laughing about the chapter summary - fuck I hope someone out there thought she was pregnant could you imagine-  
> veryveryvery big thanks to [Arichuloco](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Arichuloco/profile) for helping me with that aaaand for the beta'ing again!
> 
> Of all the chapters this one is the most unrealistic because of the fucking Noaki prize.  
> like i tried so hard to fit this plot point in and make it Real and it still doesn't feel right because im a stickler for perfection  
> but Writer-chan is a prodigy talented genuis sooooooo lol all can be forgiven.
> 
> Feedback and love is always appreciated~  
> "You're a horrible human being" is also acceptable feedback if you really mean it~  
> Keyboard smashes receive the same love too dw :)
> 
> Hope y'all are doing fine and are looking after yourselves!


	20. Birthday Boy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Is this a move?”
> 
> “You wouldn’t even know I was pulling one on you – I’m the Master of Subtlety.”
> 
> “And the Queen of Humility too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> roughly 10k words ahead, have fun down there :)

_ July, 2018 _

 

He had been allowed the day off from training.

A rarity he had not known the pleasure of, but a perk he was completely content with receiving.

It was a fitting present for his 23rd birthday.

But it would be even better if he had _people_ to spend it _with_.

Makki had been stuck working for the better part of the week, no doubt thanks to the efforts of Writer-chan and whatever it was she had done this time around. Oikawa learned not to inquire about specifics as it; (a) set Makki off into a complete spiel of literary mumbo jumbo and jargon that he didn’t understand nor care to ask about, (b) made the editor cry in sheer happiness because of the impossible nature of the achievement, or (c) a mixture of both.

He was often met with (c), but he had lost count after the third conversation of that nature.

Mattsun was busying entertaining associates from the Chinese Head Quarters of their trading company, which meant that he was out of the loop for as long as they were within the capital. He hadn’t received a time frame, so Oikawa assumed that they were still in the vicinity and needed a tour guide.

And Iwa-chan…

Despite having said that he wanted things to return to the way they once were, Iwa-chan had opted to keep his distance. At least, Oikawa assumed he was keeping his distance – the spiker could actually be strung up between the responsibilities that began piling up at work and the emotional stress of the confession from a few days prior.

The thought of intruding into whatever the man was doing originally consumed Oikawa’s thoughts, but something told him not too. Iwa-chan was not unbreakable, and perhaps he needed time for himself before diving back into the routine friendship that they – that _Oikawa_ – had been used to.

Was he happy about that?

It wasn’t indifference he was feeling, but it wasn’t complete caring either. Oikawa wanted to actually act on the promise he kept, and he was sure that Iwa-chan wanted to as well.

But perhaps that had not been the case.

So he had resigned himself to being alone.

Which was fine.

Definitely.

Even if it meant lingering in his apartment while the world moved forward without him.

 _And just when he had finally gotten back into the groove of things_.

Maybe the day off _wasn’t_ such a good idea.

He had already finished the mess of laundry that was taking refuge in his bedroom, as well as reorganised the Trophy Case and dusted anything that lacked its usual sparkle. He’d stopped by the konbini to get more groceries – even went to an _actual butcher_ for cold cuts because he was so bored – and then cleaned the rest of the living spaces in his apartment.

There was nothing left for him to do.

Nothing except celebrate his actual goddamn birthday.

Which he wouldn’t.

Not alone at least.

Birthdays alone were sad, and he had thought about stopping by a bakery and choosing one of the many desserts that were in the displays – but if he were the only one eating and enjoying himself then there wasn’t a point.

But it wasn’t as if being alone was a bad thing – if anything there were positives to the isolation. Self-reflection was always a good thing. And there was nothing wrong with wanting that alone time; people were draining and he couldn’t only be Charming and Polite for so long.

Still, it didn’t explain the emptiness he felt on that day in particular.

It was around dusk when he had come to a specific conclusion, one suitable and logical that fit the with the pieces of the puzzle he had begun to construct.

“I’m spoilt.” He determined to himself, propping his chin on a cushion as he sprawled across his sofa.

It was true. He had grown so used to the idea of being around other people that the concept of  ‘alone time’ was not only foreign but unwanted.

But it wasn’t as if being spoilt was a bad thing either, if anything it showed he was human.

Oikawa enjoyed attention, that was true, but all people deserve affection in any of its many iterations. And while it would be selfish to try and hog said attention to himself, there was a fraction of his being that argued it was justified. He worked hard, he deserved accolades for his effort. And for being alive for as long as he had been.

Only strange people didn’t like attention – he knew the type; the anti-sociable individual purposefully pushing people away because Image and Distance and Angst.

People like-

His eyes flitted over to the balcony.

People like Writer-chan.

People who were so unable to even fake being good-natured in the best of times, barely civil in the worst, because of the circumstances they had made for themselves.

Oikawa scoffed; he wasn’t bitter, not at all.

The setter blinked.

_Why the fuck was he still looking at the balcony?_

He hated to admit it, but he had found himself looking in that direction more and more often, as if waiting for some kind of sign from above to show him the way.

Granted, it had been almost a month since he had been out there, but after the whirlwind that was his life for the past eight months nothing could be considered impossible. Life was determined to make him understand that fact.

But there was still the issue with the goddamn balcony.

It wasn’t like he missed it – Oikawa wasn’t sentimental about places or any of that bullshit –because he didn’t, definitely not. What was there to miss about concrete and tiles held aloft in the side of a building with a view that wasn’t really worth more than his monthly rent?

His leg twitched slightly, and it was only then that he finally noticed the faint light that radiated from the adjacent balcony doorway.

(Surname).

She was home.

What were the chances?

Oikawa stood up, stretching out his back and feeling a few of the vertebrae release the trapped air from in between the gaps.

The bottle of sake from his last minor celebration had a reasonable amount left in it, and if it wasn’t enough she probably would have her own assortment of cheap beer to choose from.

This was fine.

This could work.

_God, this was a stupid idea._

She wasn’t his first choice, but Writer-chan would be good enough for an hour.

That’s all he really needed.

 

* * *

 

(Name) had been reluctant to leave her apartment.

She wasn’t sure as to what caused her sudden fear of the Outside was, but it was enough to keep her locked indoors, face down in her bedsheets.

Akaashi Keiji lingered in her mind, the gunmetal blue eyes sympathetic and demanding simultaneously, boring holes into her being intimidatingly.

As promised, she avoided Bokuto as best she could; she stayed away from his side of Mejirodai when she did leave the apartment, timed her commutes around the vague skeleton of a schedule that Ryuujin Nippon had as so to be disguised in the crowds in peak hour, and did not reply to any text or call sent her way by the spiker.

Which, if she was honest, was a surprisingly small amount. They were rare – (Name) pinned it to the encroaching Asian Games – and were merely inquisitive _‘How was your day?’ ‘Wanna go for dinner?’_

She was sure that a call would be different from a text – that if she answered one of the even rarer phone calls from the spiker all of Akaashi’s warnings would be correct. Bokuto Koutarou would try and win her over, would try to show her that being with him would be worth whatever trouble came forward because “he loves you, (Surname)-sensei, and he is a man without any filter that stops him from making mistakes”.

It was rough, but she had promised to do her best.

It was better this way. He would get over her soon enough.

But her avoiding her phone meant that she was just running away from all of her responsibilities in general. Which meant all of Hanamaki’s updates went unanswered, Mattsun’s memes unread, and a general evasion of whatever would remind her of the outside or distract her from the promise she determined to keep.

Instead of trying to be productive like a regular individual, however, she sought to slumming it in her lounge, slowly pounding through the many recommendations of things to watch that Makoto had given her while she drunk away her sorrows.

Some would call that sad, but really it was no different to the track record she had from when she first moved out to Tokyo.

It wasn’t as if the reclusiveness was out of character – if anything it was standard (Surname) (Name) behaviour – but when compared to everything she had done with Bokuto over the past few months, being alone suddenly felt lonely.

_So lonely._

“Wimp.” She grumbled to herself, continuing to stare aimlessly at the TV screen in front of her the background music from the drama reverberating the in the air. The writer scoffed as she continued watching, analysing the way the secondary male lead stared so forlornly towards the female lead.

She knew that look now, and it brought with it a sense of guilt because Bokuto Koutarou deserved better.

(Name) turned off the TV, lobbing the remote onto the kotatsu which had been moved back towards the kitchen. The writer sprawled onto the couch, stretched her arms above her head before her limbs went slack against the plush surface underneath her body.

In her youth there was never any consideration of the consequences of loneliness – that in itself was her state of being, there was no other world outside of her isolation and her writing.

But that was before Tokyo, before the reality that her dream job was abysmally unrewarding in most ways, before Bokuto Koutarou came in like a storm and tore what comfort she had to _fucking_ sunder and replaced it with an image of himself.

He ruined her.

He ruined her by _helping_ her.

What were the fucking odds?

The writer sighed. (Name) couldn’t blame him. He meant well, he saw she needed help, and she was willing – was far too eager – to accept his advance of friendship. If anything, she was the only person to blame for her sudden predicament, for the uncertainty that the change had caused.

(Surname) (Name) needed to cope with her faults, because that was what Adulthood dictated she do.

There was movement from outside, a brief glimpse of yellowish light shone from the apartment next door, illuminating the darkness that filled the sky. And there, breaking the stark lighting, was a silhouette, barely recognisable if it weren’t for the slight cowlicks.

Oikawa.

She felt herself get up, grabbing an unopened can from the floor.

She needed company.

 _God_ , she was turning into Hanamaki.

And this was definitely not Adulthood – but Adulthood be damned, she was going to get company in one way or another. Even if it meant sacrificing the very, very, _very small_ sliver of pride she had left then so fucking be it.

Loneliness sucked these days.

She didn’t like it.

As she slid open the door, a wave of hot air hit her, kissing her face and cheeks as if welcoming her home. She stepped out, not bothering to close the door behind her, and began walking towards her usual seat to the right.

She didn’t bother looking at him.

Neither did he.

“You’re late.”

“It’s barely six o’clock, I’m early.”

“ _Late_ ~”

She scoffed and went to pass him the can of Highball, only to hear the aluminium give off a dull clink as it connected with glass. (Name) looked, eyeing the opened bottle of sake the brunet setter was holding out before him.

“You didn’t seem like the sake type.” She said, pulling her hand away while dropping down into the small chair. Oikawa scoffed.

“I am a country boy, Writer-chan, we love our sake.”

“You seem too preppy, I honestly pinned you for a man with fruitier tastes.” The can opened with a hiss, and from the corner of her eye she saw Oikawa glance at the label before bringing the bottle straight to his lips.

“If it helps,” he said after swallowing his sip, “this is a fruity variety of sake.”

“The Writer is _always_ right.” She grinned triumphantly before drinking from her own beverage.

They fell into silence, alternating between drinking and taking fleeting glances at the person at their side.

“It’s been a while.” Oikawa stated, turning in his chair to face her. She didn’t move. “What is it, a month?”

“Close to two probably.” (Name) hummed in response. “Busy?”

“Back on the team. They made me the pinch server for the Asian Games. Coach reckons they’ll need the firepower when they’re in a defensive pinch, they’ll definitely need to switch from the offensive style we’ve gotten used to.”

“I’m going to pretend that I understood all those words as a sentence and not just individually.”

She reached her right arm out as she spoke, can held aloft between the barriers before she felt it move, another dull clang signifying the setter had actually toasted with her.

“Anything new with you, Writer-Chan?”

She hesitated for a moment but shook her head. “Not really.”

“So Makki-Makki is freaking out for no reason?”

“Pretty sure that’s his natural state of being at this point.”

“And who’s to blame for that, huh?”

“Mattsun, probably.”

Oikawa snickered but quickly recovered.

“But there’s nothing else going on in your life?” He continued, “Nothing too left field?”

(Name) trained her face into one of stoic indifference. The setter knew something about her situation – whether he was bluffing or actually knew she couldn’t tell – but she would not risk giving herself away.

It’s not like she told Mattsun or Hanamaki anything about her and Bokuto – as far as they were both concerned she was doing fine on her own with both books released and a long deserved break from writing pencilled in on the calendar.

“No, why?”

He frowned. “You wouldn’t come out here unless there was a reason for it.”

It was then, and only then, that (Name) turned her head to look at him. “Isn’t it the same for you, Limpy?”

Oikawa’s lips curved into a teasing grin. He didn’t speak, instead choosing to extend the arm hold the sake bottle out once more. She followed suit, tapping the sides of both containers before they both took a long swig in unison.

“It’s my first day off in a while,” Oikawa supplied, catching the writer off guard, “because Coach Nagakaichi thought it would be a good birthday present.”

“And your hot date cancelled on you. That’s rough.”

“Mattsun, Makki and Iwa-chan aren’t hot, Writer-chan.”

“I mean, Iwaizumi is a fine looking man.”

“And he bats for a different team.”

Oikawa’s eyes widened, slamming his lips shut as soon as the words left his lips.

(Name) willed herself not to freeze as well.

So Iwaizumi actually talked to Oikawa about his feelings – with less than pleasing results it seemed.

How unfortunate.

A part of her wondered if it were okay to disclose that she knew. But that train of thought died the moment she let her mind wander into possibilities – she didn’t like what she saw in his eyes, that uncertainty and fear. So she decided it was better if she danced around the remark. If she told him she knew then that was a sign for Oikawa to know something wasn’t right in her life either.

“What a shame,” she hummed thoughtfully, barely catching the glimpse of guilt that flitted across his face.

The setter exhaled deeply before nodding, more so to himself than to the woman’s remark.

“So you just sat around today?”

“Like a complete loser, Writer-chan~”

She scoffed through her drink. “You’re just needy, Alone Time is perfectly normal.”

“But you’re a complete loser so that’s normal for you.”

“Like you can talk, you moped for a third of the year over an injury with a 98% full recovery rate. I mope by choice, you mope because you’re looking for sympathy like the needy guy you are.”

He huffed. “Fair point, but _my_ point still stands.”

It did, (Name) knew that. But she be _damned_ if she were to agree with him. Though her opinions on company had changed, there still existed a part of her that did not mind the reclusive life – all she needed to do was get rid of the urge to be a _companion_ to someone and then all would be well.

At least, she hoped that’s how that worked.

“Get dressed Limpy.” (Name) stretched her arms above her head.

Oikawa blinked, eyes trained on her form as the writer stood up from her seat.

“What?”

“Dinner, on me. Let’s go.”

Oikawa stared.

“Is this a move?”

“You wouldn’t even know I was pulling one on you – I’m the Master of Subtlety.”

“And the Queen of Humility too.”

“Damn fucking straight.”

Oikawa slowly placed the sake bottle on to the tiles beneath him, watching the woman stretch out the kinks in her neck and back and hips.

He narrowed his eyes.

“What’s your game?”

She shrugged.

“No game.”

“Everyone has a game.”

“Life isn’t a volleyball match, Limpy.”

“So what?”

The writer paused, casting a glance at him from the corner of her eye. “Everyone deserves a good meal on their birthday. Even a Shittykawa like yourself.”

The setter swore he saw the smidge of a shit-eating grin on her face, and he puffed his cheeks out.

“Looking good takes time, Writer-chan.”

“Seems like you don’t put enough effort in then.” She teased, not bothering to indulge him any further. “I’ll be in the lobby, feel free to join me whenever you’re ready."

 

* * *

 

Back when they all lived in Sendai, Oikawa, Iwaizumi, Matsukawa and Hanamaki used to go to a small ramen house for any big celebration. They were frequent patrons, to the point where the owner – a middle aged woman nearing closer to 40 than 30 – knew their orders back to front while her husband had gotten a good feel for their tastes.

Birthdays were always on the second floor of the house, tucked away in the corner. The owners always went out of their way to bring a cake from a nearby bakery for them as well – how they discovered their birthdays, the four of them would never know.

Those were the distant days of the past, though, back before the life got hard and they all started drifting apart in smaller, unimaginable ways.

And then there was (Surname), an enigma of sorts who had decided that a ramen house in the middle of Shinjuku was the right place to celebrate his birthday.

Oikawa had pried for an answer – no doubt wondering if Makki had forced her to elicit some form of sympathy for the Forgotten Setter, had forced her to take him out for a night in order to make up for the fact that literally _no one else_ could make it.

All he had gotten in response was, “It may be your birthday Limpy, but I really wanted ramen.”

And that had been the last point of conversation between them for the evening, only talking to each other to confirm orders or to ask if they could signal a member of the waitstaff over for them.

But the wheels in Oikawa’s mind would not stop turning, and while they ate their ramen in silence he tried desperately not to impose, not to ruin the civility he _knew_ Makki and Mattsun had forced her to uphold for the evening.

And the words left his mouth without realising, right after she had ordered another plate of gyoza.

“So there’s something that’s been on my mind for a while.”

“I expect nothing less from Caesar; primate destined to destroy the world.” She replied, not missing a beat, not bothering to cast him a glance. He continued, undeterred.

“Why do you call Mattsun ‘Mattsun’ but Makki ‘Hanamaki’?”

(Name) froze, chopsticks holding the noodles aloft in the air, steam billowing from the thick yellow strands.

“That’s the big question?”

“Everyone who knows the both of them uses ‘Makki’ and ‘Mattsun’ – like even teachers started to do it back in high school… So it’s just weird to me that you know both of them on such a personal level and yet you’re only on a nickname basis with _one_ of them. And not even the _good_ one, by the way – Mattsun the worst one of the two.”

The writer took to finishing her serving before answering, partially for polite purposes, mainly because _why did she not call Hanamaki by a nickname?_

There was an answer to his question – a few suitable ones if she was perfectly honest – but there weren’t enough hours in a day for her to explain it to him.

(Name) could admit the main truth behind it all, but that would be a complete Jackass Move to tell one of her editor’s best friends that she in no way, shape, or form trusted him in the same way she did Mattsun.

She wasn’t allowed to play favourites.

She _shouldn’t_ be playing favourites in the first place.

“Mattsun introduced himself with Mattsun. Hanamaki called himself Hanamaki. One’s a friendly, personable environment, the other was purely a business partnership.”

“But that was before you knew Mattsun and Makki were fucking.”

“The good old days.”

“So why didn’t you start calling Makki ‘Makki’ when you found out?”

 _A name is never easily earned_.

“I tend to stick with the first name people give me; Matsukawa is Mattsun, Hanamaki is Hanamaki, you are Limpy, Iwaizumi-san is Iwaizumi and-”

 _Bokuto is Bo_.

“And that’s how it always is been.” She concluded, poking at the pork that was marinating in the cloudy broth.

It wasn’t a complete lie – Mattsun had made a point that he preferred his nickname in informal settings, and Hanamaki’s relationship with her had never passed into full blown friendship. It would slip, sure, but that was expected when she was friends with her editors significant other. It was the same for Iwaizumi, and Bokuto (technically), so she was still upholding a part of her new-found rules.

_Transparency is the second step to stop being an ass._

Oikawa frowned, noting the subtle flicker of something in the writer’s averted gaze.

“Word to the wise-”

“Indulge me, O Grand King.”

“Makki means well, he’s shit at the emotions thing, but he tries. And considering you’re really close with Mattsun it only makes sense that you try and be the same with him, yeah? He’s the affectionate type, really likes nicknames – he’s the endearing type of guy when you get to know him.”

“And you’re the Duke of Socialising?”

“Trust me, Writer-chan, people appreciate someone who’s charming and well mannered than they do the snarky sarcastic types. Sure, your schtick is cute for now, but in the long run it's not the best outcome for you.”

“And who, pray-tell, coined their nicknames?”

“One of my best moments, I’m sure~”

She rolled her eyes, poking at the last fried tempura between them with the wrong end of her chopsticks. She caught the tail between the metal prongs and lightly dipped it twice in the sauce before she placed it on the small black ceramic dish on the setter’s side. He raised a brow at her.

“I’m waiting for my gyoza.”

“What if I don’t like tempura?”

“You ordered the side dish, why would you not want the last piece?”

The brunet widened his eyes at her, at the way the (h/c)-haired woman in front of him continued to eat as she not only remembered his first order of the evening but his preference of how he _dipped his fucking tempura_ -

After a brief moment of hesitation he picked it up and ate it himself, slightly perturbed at the fact she had done the dip perfectly; the sauce coated the surface evenly, and yet did not dampen the crumb coated exterior.

Oikawa frowned, placing the empty serving plate to the side of the table to be collected.

An enigma, that’s what she was. And he be damned if he wouldn’t figure her out by the end of the night.

 

* * *

 

“We’re gonna miss the last couple trains if we keep this up.” (Name) sighed as Oikawa dragged her out of a store and into the direction of another. The latter shrugged.

“We can catch a cab, no biggie. And besides Writer-chan, it _is_ my birthday~”

“I promised dinner-”

“But what’s dinner without a show, yeah?”

“ _A normal dinner_.”

“ _Boring_.”

“How is this entertaining?”

“You look so funny when you’re annoyed Writer-chan! It’s no wonder Mattsun told me he enjoys riling you up.”

Most shopping districts in the country were closed by 9, and with the way the brunet had been pulling the woman in and out of doorways and through crowded streets, it seemed as if he was willing to go exploring till the very last minute.

(Name) wouldn’t be so annoyed if it weren’t for the fact that Oikawa had not been buying anything. At all. He would ponder over a choice or two before discarding the item to where he found it and pulling her elsewhere.

She was sure he was torturing her; and after she had willingly paid for his expensive meal and took him out on the town. And she thought _she_ was the Asshole.

Oikawa laughed at her disgruntled expression and sighed.

“Alright, alright, I’m a kind soul. _You_ can choose the next shop we go to.”

(Name) glanced around before a smirk pulled its way on to her lips. She jutted a finger out to a small intersection. “In there then.”

Oikawa groaned as he read the neon sign of the establishment. “A book depository? Gonna check on your best sellers?”

She scoffed. “I actually enjoy entering a story and buying something – there’s a new non-fiction release I want to pick up that looks interesting.”

“Ah, scoping out the competition then Writer-chan?”

“I write pure make-believe bullshit, which is not non-fiction. Get your facts straight Limpy.”

She kept walking, not bothering to check to see if he was following – and frankly she was hoping that he had decided to ditch since then she could try and get a brief moment of peace.

Oikawa glanced around, noting the immediate disappearance of his company for the evening, and sought to exploring on his own.

The last time he had willingly been inside a bookstore of any kind was at the beginning of his final semester at university. The university bookshop had been packed to the walls with people getting supplies, and it was on that day he vowed never to go back to a bookstore of any sort if he could help it.

In this case he couldn’t help it – that’s what he made himself believe at least.

Unlike the campus bookshop, this small building was relatively empty, with only a few bodies scattered between shelves and aisles and display tables holding sale items that needed to be cleared.

When he reached the middle of the ‘HIGHLY RECOMMENDED’ wall, he finally spotted the first of many posters displaying the woman’s name.

 **(Surname) (Name) –** **_A Moth to Flame_ ** **– 2018 Winner of the Oe Prize**

_Limited Edition – Watercolour Hardcover, New Prologue written by (Surname)-sensei herself!_

The setter drew closer to the lacquered shelves, eyes trained on one of the many copies of the novel and its daring image.

Perhaps it was his lack of finesse with the arts, but Oikawa had always thought of watercolour paintings to be softer, less impactful than oil painting on a canvas. But there it was, a watercolour painting of red and orange fire, engulfing the exterior as it slowly turned its free space to darkened ash. For a brief second, he thought he saw the flames flicker, beckoning he step closer and closer to the wall. Amidst the chaos, he saw the faint silhouette of a winged insect, the edges of the shape blending into the flames and bleeding into the darkness slowly dispersing around the torrent of heat.

He reached out, gingerly pulling one of the copies off the shelf by the spine and blindly flicked the work open to a random page.

_‘And again, despite knowing the fate of those who walked a similar path, he travelled forward – as if forwards was the only direction he knew. Unbothered._

_The voices echoed in his mind, foreboding tones that warned him – reminded him – of the scorched path before him._

_He did not fear. A flaw. Unbothered. Dangerous. But blinded by the questions of a future unwritten and written simultaneously; he was a force to be reckoned with in all the wrong ways._

_There was no point in looking back, not when he was ready to forge his own path through the wreckage. The ashes only served as a cue to push him forward – he would not stumble were others fell._

_This was his destiny. This was his truth.’_

That was the end of a chapter, and he flicked the page to catch a glimpse of the following opening lines before he stopped himself, immediately slamming the book shut and shoving it back into its place. He moved quickly, frantically, as if the inanimate fire had burned his hands raw.

_Nope nope nope nope nope nope!_

He was not getting sucked into this world – not after Makki and Mattsun and Iwa-chan and Tarou-chan seemed to be swallowed by the monster that was (Surname) (Name)’s writing.

He turned on his heel to find the writer, pushing the intrusive thoughts of “That was actually really nice” out of his stream of consciousness.

Weaving through the store, Oikawa caught the faint chuckle of the writer from a few aisles over and followed the faint sound, treading lightly as so not to alert her of his presence.

And then as he neared, he heard a secondary voice. Deeper, more baritone, full of testosterone that had permeated deep into the stranger’s vocal chords.

He poked his head around the corner to catch a glimpse; light brown hair slicked back and button down dress shirt a few shades darker than the surrounding shelving units, fitted black jeans and loafers. Handsome.

But not as attractive as _he_ was, certainly.

There were a few more pleasantries between the pair before the other man disappeared from sight, forcing Oikawa to duck back around as so not to be seen.

The setter waited a few moments, peeking his head around the corner of the aisle once before he decided to approach.

“I’m bored, Writer-chan~” He whined, noting the way she fiddled with the page corners of the book in her hands. “You done? I want to do more shopping.”

“It’s officially 9, everything’s probably closed.” She answered, taking a few long strides away towards the register at the front of the store. He followed on her heels.

“That’s _your_ fault.”

“You took forever to get ready, you could have prevented this.”

“But I needed to look good for my birthday!”

“Accept you look shit like the rest of us and move on.” She grumbled, placing the book on the counter to be checked out. The clerk was an older man, with greying hair and tired eyes. There was a brief moment of recognition that passed through his face.

“(Name)-sensei, always a pleasure.” He smiled warmly, scanning the book’s barcode. “Did you see the new display for your debut work? I just finished it this afternoon, but when the rush comes in tomorrow I expect it will be completely ruined. That Hanamaki of yours really knows his designs.”

_Hanamaki? Design?_

“He’s the reason it sells out here, I’m sure.” She dismissed, rummaging around for her debit card. “That and your lovely service, Usogawa-san.”

The older man chuckled, slipping the paperback book into a brown paper bag.

“Oh, and one of these, thanks.” She placed a bookmark onto the counter as well, and Usogawa’s grin widened.

“On the house, then. As thank you for stopping by so often to see this old man.”

“You’re too kind,” she grinned, tapping her card on the EFPTOS machine to finalise the payment. As the clerk handed her the purchase, she dropped the bookmark into the bag alongside it. “Have a good evening Usogawa-san. Tell your wife I said hi.”

Oikawa watched the man wave back before he followed her out of the store, slightly bemused by the situation. It was the first time he had been actively ignored by someone like that. Mattsun really wasn’t kidding when he said Writer-chan was in a different world.

As the entered back on to the crowded Shinjuku streets, (Name) fumbled with her purchase before she held out her hand to him. Oikawa opened his palm instinctively and watched the writer place the bookmark in his hand.

“Happy Birthday.” She announced, retracting her hand and beginning to walk away.

The bookmark curled in his hand, a 3-strand plait of black, white, and blue leather that was tied off on one end while the other was connected to small charm of a pig. He frowned.

“Really funny Writer-chan.” He grumbled, striding off after her while he slipped the gift into his back pocket. “A pig charm?”

“You were born in 1995 right? We’re the same age, it’s only fair that you get a Zodiac charm.” She deadpanned, “I would have gotten you a crab if they had one.”

“Crab?”

“You’re a Cancer in the Western Zodiac and a Pig in the Chinese one. This was, surprisingly, a happy medium.”

He smirked, “Old people and children soften up your harsh exterior!”

“I’m just in a spending mood.”

Oikawa laughed her, barely noticing the way she rolled her eyes at his antics. And then there was silence, only for a minute or two, only broken by Oikawa’s intrusion.

“Who was the guy?”

“Usogawa, the owner. He’s a top seller for my works in the metropolitan district.”

“No, the other guy?”

(Name) tensed her shoulders slightly, as if startled by the fact he had seen that interaction.

“Colleague from Kodansha. He’s your nephew’s favourite mangaka, Imai Eikichi.”

“Cute.”

“I think he’s probably dating his editor,” she shoved her free hand into her jeans pockets, “I caught him fixing his tie right before he entered a big meeting about sales and she walked out looking very ruffled.”

“Scandalous.”

“I know.”

“Are they serious about it?”

“Probably not, I think his editor has her eyes on another guy.”

“Oh?”

“Hisakawa.”

Oikawa blinked. “Who’s-kawa?”

“Our-kawa. Hanamaki’s boss.”

“So she’s vying for the even more taboo option between the two? Her client versus her boss?”

“Different departments, Limpy; Eikichi is a mangaka, not a novelist.”

“Same difference.”

“If mangakas could get nominated for the same awards I did, Limpy, I’d be straight fucked.” She admitted truthfully. “That Guy is in a league of his own in the manga world.”

“So he’s the You?”

She cringed at his terminology. “If saying that helps you get it, then yeah.”

“But he must not be that good then,” Oikawa pondered, “especially if all these business owners are complimenting Makki-Makki for his efforts with your book.”

She shrugged. “He’s doing a job and he does it well.”

“He doesn’t care about a lot; Mattsun mainly, volleyball, memes – the fact he’s invested is saying something.”

The writer raised a brow at him.

“He’s trying,” he reminded, grinning at her in a way that put her on edge. She didn’t waver, instead choosing to walk a little faster.

“I know a good ice cream parlour, let’s get dessert.

 

* * *

 

A night out turned into a therapy session, and Kuroo was sure that this hadn’t been his brightest idea. But things needed to be done, Bokuto needed to get out of his bubble of depression and face the real world – if he got stuck in a rut then their performance in the next few months would suffer just as much as he was.

“She hasn’t talked to me in weeks.”

“Maybe she’s writing.”

“She didn’t have anything else planned for this year.”

“Maybe she’s travelling.”

“She hates travelling.”

“Maybe she’s just busy.”

“Even if she was, she would always have time for me.”

Kuroo couldn’t argue with that logic.

From all the stories he had heard of the woman, Bokuto was always happy to mention how flexible she was towards him, how understanding and unbothered she was to spend time with him, how accommodating it was being with her. Akaashi had even commented on her surprising patience with him.

“She cares,” he would say, “and it annoys me because she should care that much about herself rather than some schmuck like me.”

From personality alone, it was easy to see how the wing spiker would have fallen in love so quickly. Bokuto was a man who always enjoyed being relied on, and always had to be doted on. For him to find a friendship like theirs – one of easy reciprocity – it was perfect.

Bokuto Koutarou had always been a red string of fate type of guy.

Kuroo Tetsurou, not so much.

Akaashi was certain that their spiker would get over the Unnamed Writer in time. He had done most of the heavy lifting for the three of them, and all the younger male wanted Kuroo to do was to put the idea into his head, to try and at least take his mind off of whatever channel it was currently stuck on.

Kuroo called it Writer-Watch. If he knew the woman’s name, maybe it would be a little more inventive.

But those were issues for another day, when his concerns were not on Bokuto’s state of mind and were on something more menial.

Like chemistry equations, or the make-up of particular DNA strands.

“But listen Bo, about Your Writer-”

As Kuroo brought his attention back to earth, his throat closed up immediately at the sight of his best friend.

Bokuto’s eyes were lit aflame.

Kuroo frowned at the sudden mood change, slowly following his best friend’s gaze to see-

“(Name).”

Kuroo had never seen the woman the spiker was so infatuated with – Bokuto never gave him a name to look up, nor had Akaashi been willing to disclose the information he knew – but from a distance the bedhead understood the commotion that had arisen over the first half of the year.

She was beautiful.

Not much his type, but definitely Bo’s.

Kuroo always believed in the idea that Bokuto was the physical embodiment of “opposites attract”; a vivacious, outgoing guy like himself had a long track record of befriending people who were a little more on the colder side of the personality spectrum and making them Better™. Case and point, Akaashi Keiji had not always been the personable, charming guy most people perceived him as.

So when Kuroo finally got a good look at her it made sense; the sparkle in the writer’s (e/c) eyes were newly placed, were still burning like young flames, birthed from the embers of the golden eyed male’s own roaring fire. But the fire didn’t manifest on to her face in any other way, instead she held an aloof air about her, a sardonic smile on her lips and relaxed posture. Her hair was swept off her face from the brief summer breeze, (h/l) (h/c) hair ruffling in a way that was far too inviting, was far too dangerous.

For a moment, Kuroo swore their gazes met as her own swept over the crowd between them. The corner of her lip twitched upwards before she stopped, turning to address her companion next to her-

A familiar cowlicked brunet, who walked in long, slow strides that matched the writer’s. He tucked his hands into his back pants pockets, leaning down to talk to the woman. He grinned – the same fucking grin he would use for the fangirls that followed him around campus – while the writer looked completely unamused. The pair walking towards them, unbothered by the people around them.

Oikawa.

_So much for not wanting to get involved with her bullshit, huh._

Kuroo tore his gaze away, feeling the presence of his best friend no longer by his side. He turned and saw him standing still, his own piercing gaze directed at the couple – no at the writer – no, _at Oikawa_.

Two words flashed in the middle blocker’s mind.

The plan.

 _Oh fuck_.

“I’m gonna-”

“Bo, no.”

“Kuroo don’t-”

“Bokuto stop!”

The middle blocker wrapped an arm around the spiker’s shoulders, locking his thick neck between his bony elbow and dragging him away into a nearby alleyway. It was then, and only then, where Kuroo released him of his death grip.

“The fuck is your problem Kuroo?!” Bokuto yelled. “Just let me talk to her!”

“Bo, you’re not thinking straight!”

“I’m just gonna go over there and talk to them-”

“You’re gonna start shit-”

“No I-”

“Start shit _with Oikawa_ , aren’t you?”

The accusation came out as a growl, warning and almost predatory in nature.

“He’s gonna mess with her head Kuroo, you know how Tooru is!”

Bokuto had a point – he had been having a lot of good points over the past few weeks.

“She has time to spend with Tooru but not any to talk to me?”

Kuroo felt his lip twitch. “Maybe she’s being civil-”

“It’s _Oikawa Tooru_ ; the same guy who literally ruined her friendship with a childhood friend-”

“People change, Bo.” Kuroo grabbed him by the shoulders, forcing the spiker to look him in the eye, hardening his eyes into a stern expression.

“I _need_ to talk to her, bro.” The sentence, though firm in its initial delivery flittered off into a plea. It hurt the bedhead to do this, but there was a plan and things needed to happen one way or another.

“Maybe it’s best if you kept your distance Bo… Just for now.” Kuroo tightened his grip slightly, squeezing the still tensed muscles of his shoulders.

“But-”

“I know, bro, but we’ve got Jakarta right around the corner and we can’t mess this up. We’ve gotta prove to the rest of the world that Japan would still be a major contender, even if we didn’t automatically qualify from hosting the Games, yeah? Your life is always going to be more important than your Writer.”

Bokuto’s hair deflated, and the look on his face was enough for Kuroo to understand his thoughts.

_No it’s not._

Kuroo felt a pang of guilt in his chest.

 _God, Akaashi is going to_ kill _him for this._

“But maybe…” He frowned. “Maybe _after_ we kill it in Jakarta and in the FIVB you can talk to her… You might need a bit more time to figure out what you wanna say to her cause, well, y’know how you are with words most of the time.”

Kuroo mimed vomiting, and he swore Bokuto smiled for a brief second before sighing in resignation and nodding, slumping slightly into his best friend’s form.

“Yeah… Yeah I guess.”

The middle blocker rubbed the other man’s shoulder. “You good?”

“Yeah just…” Bokuto exhaled deeply through his nose. “Let’s just go home, Kuroo.”

The latter nodded, releasing the former from his grip and guiding him out of the shadows. He could breathe his own sigh of relief for the first time that evening.

When they left the alleyway, the writer and the setter were nowhere to be seen.

“Kuroo.”

“Mhm?”

“What do I do if Oikawa’s in love with her?” There was a disheartened look on his face. “I can’t compete with a guy like Tooru.”

There was a pregnant silence between them.

A part of him wanted to dismiss the thought, to satiate Bokuto’s concern with a comment that wasn’t too dissimilar to “Oikawa is volley-sexual, he doesn’t have time for ladies.”

But even he wasn’t too sure as to what was true or not.

Kuroo hooked an arm around his shoulders again, pulling him into his side. “Start thinking about what you’ll say to _her_ instead of what you wanna say to _him_ , yeah? You don’t have to care about Assakawa yet. Just focus on you.”

Bokuto nodded, pulling his lips together into a tight line.

That talk with (Name) could wait, she would _always_ wait for him and he knew that.

But even with Kuroo’s words of wisdom, Bokuto couldn’t help but let his mind wander to Oikawa Tooru.

 

* * *

 

It was a little after midnight when the pair had returned to their apartment building, sharing a taxi ride home through the still lively streets of the metropolitan centre towards their quiet residential district. They had spent far too long with their desserts, Oikawa determined to burn a hole in the writer’s pocket as if his future career depended on it.

“Thank you for tonight…” Oikawa coughed, scratching the back of his head.. “It was nice of you.”

“Don’t tell anyone yeah, I have an image to uphold.”

“Don’t be surprised if you see your face in a tabloid within the next week.”

“Oh the horror, my career is over.”

He held the door open for her as they approached the lobby’s entrance. The lights of the main foyer were dimmed, just bright enough to guide them towards the elevator.

“This was nice… I mean that.”

“It better have been, I spent a lot of fucking money for you man. I don’t even spend that much on myself.”

“Well you should know Writer-chan, I am a man of very fine tastes – only the best of Oikawa Tooru.” He teased, shoving her shoulder with his own playfully. She grumbled at his words – something about Caesar and getting stabbed in the back – while she rolled her eyes at him.

It felt silent for a moment. The elevator dinged, sleek metal doors sliding open to reveal the similarly styled interior. They both stepped in, (Name) pressing the button to their floor while Oikawa watched the doors slide shut.

“I’m glad,” she murmured, “it wasn’t terrible. Just bearable. 5 out of 10.”

Oikawa frowned. “That’s _barely_ a pass.”

“I said it was bearable, didn’t I?” His frowned deepened. “My reviewers are generous, not me.”

“Journalism is a mess these days, no one’s telling it like it is anymore.” He hummed jokingly. He caught the end of her tensing shoulders at the side comment.

Another thirty seconds passed before the elevator stopped its ascension, doors sliding open again to reveal their familiar floor.

The pair exited, slowly making their way down to their apartments.

Oikawa trained his gaze down to the writer, watching the discomfort slowly filter away as they continued their approach.

The memory of her dejection all those months ago appeared in his mind.

 _Ah, I’m an asshole_.

He grabbed at her elbow, stopping her mid step.

“I’m sorry… For what I said a few months ago… Really. I was out of line and I shouldn’t have said anything so asinine and rude and I…”

His tongue jammed itself back down his throat.

He couldn’t say he didn’t mean it because he did.

And a part of him still kind of did.

But whether she knew that, she didn’t let it show.

“Apology accepted.” She shoved her hands into her pockets, pulling her elbow out of his grasp at the same time. “I’ll gladly take this second apology as your reimbursement.”

He frowned.

“Why didn’t you accept it the first time?”

“You weren’t sincere enough.” She disclosed. “I’m just as big of an asshole as you are, Limpy, I know the same fucking plays you can use.”

He frowned. “But I’m _really good_ at the whole fake sincerity thing.”

“And I’m a _really big_ asshole.”

They both paused in front of her door, and Oikawa slowly took a step to the right to try and increase the distance between them.

“And this time?”

“You’re slightly more sincere,” she responded, “still an asshole, though, so I’ve gotta be sure if you mean it.”

“How will you know?”

The all-too-familiar smirk adorned her face as she turned her head towards him.

“I’m the Illustrious (Surname) (Name), Limpy. The guilt will eat you up inside and I’ll know when and where.”

_Was that a warning to be sincere?_

Before he could answer, the door was thrown open for her.

“There you are, I am _starving_.”

Mattsun paused mid-sentence, staring between the two bodies that were still facing each other.

“Just get inside then,” (Name) grumbled, pushing the door open further to allow herself in, “you better not stay long, I want to go to sleep.”

And then the door was shut, locking Oikawa out and both (Name) and Mattsun in.

 

* * *

 

“The Boy fucked up.”

Mattsun announced from the genkan, still toeing off his shoes and storming barefoot into their apartment. Makki sat on the couch, gaze trained on the TV screen, unbothered but the glimmer Mattsun caught in his eye was sheer anticipation. He stalked over, leaning over the backing of couch to get his attention.

“Which Boy? My Boy or Your Boy?”

“Number 16. _Your_ Boy.”

Makki slowly turned his head, eyebrows furrowed together.

“No he hasn’t?”

“Uh, yes he has?”

“He really hasn’t?”

“Explain why I caught her coming home from a _date_ with _Oikawa_ and them _lingering in front of their apartments_.”

Makki blinked. “They were not.”

“They were. I cockblocked him, which is an achievement in itself.” Mattsun flopped beside the pink-haired male. “But still, they went out on a date and Your Boy was nowhere in her apartment when I got there-”

“But he’s still in the picture because of _all_ of the pictures _he_ gave to _her_ . And guess what, they’re _all_ of each other – what has Oikawa done these days?”

“I bet he paid for dinner-”

“Oikawa hasn’t paid for anything important in his goddamn life, Mattsun, and you know it. And he wouldn’t pay _especially_ when the person he’s going to dinner with has more money than all three of us _combined_.”

The taller male paused mid -sentence and blinked, faint hints of shock appearing on his features. “Wait… Is she really that loaded?”

Makki scoffed, raising his hand to cup the sharp jawline of his partner, thumb caressing the soft skin of his cheek. “Oh, you sweet, beautiful idiot.” He tightened his grip around the curve of the bone, squishing the corners of his mouth slightly. “ _Of course_ she’s that loaded – she gets a 70/30 split of her total sales.” The editor’s voice dropped an octave. “Your eyes wouldn’t _believe_ the numbers I have read in the past week alone, babe.”

“So Oikawa is a gold digger, did we expect anything less? _They’re gonna fuck!_ ”

“No they won’t, Bokuto is still in the lead.”

“She didn’t mention him to me, she would normally name drop him once in a conversation. _Trust me_ , Hiro, it was as if he didn’t exist anymore – there is trouble in your version of paradise and now the Devil is rising from Hell to claim the victory.”

“That’s not right because Bokuto would’ve told me what happened unless-” Makki stopped himself mid thought.

“ _He’s gone and messed it up~_ ”

Makki twisted his body so he was facing the middle blocker, who wore a stupid grin across his face. “What did you _do_?”

“I did nothing, Your Boy messed up. Now all I have to do is guide My Boy on to the path that leads right to (Name)’s heart. Which’ll be easy enough now that she’s no longer a complete ass.”

Makki narrowed his eyes. “You played us.”

“I did no such thing, hot stuff.”

“I’m gonna prove you played me and My Boy and you are going to rue the day you ever double crossed me, Matsukawa Issei!”

“Looks like I was right babe. Your Boy and (Name) didn’t fuck, and now she and Oikawa will, and I’m gonna be taking that massage and blowjob on the weekend thanks-”

“No, no! It’s not over yet!” Makki slammed the cushion down onto this knees. “Bokuto’ll pull through, just you watch!” He scrambled up, a determined look in his eyes.

“Babe-”

“He’s gonna win her over, just you _fucking_ wait.”

“What, gonna pull a rabbit out of your ass?”

“I mean, I put your craggy dick in all the time, what’s the difference?”

Mattsun frowned, eyebrows furrowing together near the ridge of his nose.

“Are you taking this too far?”

Makki ignored him, mumbling words to himself almost incoherently, about best interests and books.

“Should you really be meddling with her life over a stupid bet?”

Makki barely cast him a glance. “She’s so much _happier_ with him Issei… You had to have noticed.”

He did. And that made it all the more confusing.

What started as a joke became serious business; a life or death matter that Hanamaki Takahiro had become too invested in. And he meant well, Mattsun knew his boyfriend’s intentions, but this wouldn’t end well.

“(Name)’s a smart kid-”                                                                                                                  

“Isn’t she older than you?”

“But I trust that she’s gonna do what she think is best for herself. And yeah, that’s probably Oikawa-”

“Shut your dirty fucking mouth Issei it’s Bokuto-”

“But that doesn’t mean you do something stupid, yeah? I reckon you’ve finally gotten on her good side, so do you really wanna mess that up?”

The beige-haired male frowned for a moment before his expression hardened.

“I know what’s right for her Issei, and Bokuto has helped her through more than you and I and her actually writing has ever done.” His gazed hardened. “It’ll work out. It has to.”

Mattsun sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose tiredly. “Whatever you say babe, m’gonna sleep.”

Makki kissed the crease between his brows, making Mattsun hum contentedly at the silent apology.

“The bet’s still going.”

“Mhm.”

“Just checking.”

“Nothing too drastic, you got that?”

“No promises.”

And then Makki turned back around, directing his full attention on to the TV as he fell into deep thought.

Mattsun sighed, letting his hand linger on the back of their couch before he stumbled towards the bedroom.

 

* * *

 

July 31st came to her in a dream.

At least, (Name) wanted it to come to her in a dream.

In reality, it came to her in the form of a man, half an hour before midday like the asshole he was.

There was a peculiar sense of déjà vu to the situation, a scene reminiscent to their last unexpected encounter in her bedroom after the announcement of the Oe.

(Name) would have preferred that scenario.

Instead she wasn’t in the comforting confines of her bed, rather she was in the bathtub, soaking and unwinding for a long day of nothing. And just as she was about to relax, about to let the heat of the water overtake her senses and finally submerge the rest of her upper torso into the bath, he appeared.

Hanamaki Takahiro.

Like a bat out of hell.

“ _You aren’t fucking human_!”

(Name) yelped, water splashing around as she covered her chest with her arms, watching as the editor floundered like a fish out of water in the doorway, throwing off the indoor slippers and scuttling on his knees across the tile towards her.

“Can you fucking _knock_!? Christ on a bike Hiro!” She snapped, throwing the pink loofah that rested on the soap tray at his forehead. He remained undeterred.

“I told you she would be in the bath, babe.” A distant voice chuckled.

“Can you get your fucking boyfriend out of my bathroom?!” The writer yelled at Mattsun, trying to lean out of the tub to get a good glimpse into the hallway. It was in vain, he was probably still in the genkan.

“Not my boyfriend!” Mattsun yelled back.

“Well he sure as hell ain’t mine!”

“(Name)!” Hanamaki grabbed her by the shoulders, the skin still wet from the water, as he shook her to attention.

She grabbed his forearm in retaliation, a small wet patch appearing on the long sleeve. “Takahiro!”

“What kind of demon did you sell your soul to?!”

She blinked, slowly loosening her grip. “I would say my father but he is Satan incarnate, but you’re currently giving him a run for his money. I also wanna say Mephistopheles, but again  you’re pretty damn close-”

The light-haired male clapped his right hand over her mouth, “Shut up for a second, yeah?”

The look in here eyes expressed complete annoyance at the lack of continuity in their conversation, and she swore she heard Mattsun laugh at her from the hallway.

“What did you _do_?”

She shrugged, gesturing with her free hand to the water she was sitting in.

“Besides the bath – what else?”

She stared at him, blankly.

“ _Besides your everyday routine bullshit –_ did you do _anything_ to get in people’s good books?”

She shrugged again, giving him a prompt look that said ‘I’m not even in my own good books.’

“You won the Naoki for the anthology.”

(Name) blinked.

“And I don’t know who’s dick you had to suck for that last minute win but _holy shit you actually won it-_ ”

The coherency of his words dropped, and it was a babble of syllables and sounds that (Name) could only hope to understand. Something about Hisakawa, sales, projected performance and the like.

An image of the setter next door appeared in her mind, the words of ‘wisdom’ echoing in her mind.

_Hanamaki means well, he’s trying._

Nakamura’s voice followed soon after, as if a long forgotten memory of their intensive sessions.

**_Trust is the third step to stop being an ass._ **

**_Acceptance is the fourth step to stop being an ass._ **

She huffed the clogged breath of her from her throat before speaking.

“I appreciate you both stopping in Makki, really, but I’m tired and I am not ready for the commitments so could you please leave?”

“Hold up,” the editor stared at her wide eyed, “what did you say?”

“Please leave.”

“Before that!”

“I’m not ready for commitment-”

“You called me ‘Makki’.”

She blinked.

Huh.

She did.

“Well that’s your name isn’t it? Makki.”

The beige-haired male’s face twisted in disbelief before he let out a strangled rendition of her name, leaning into her wet body and slipping, forcing them both into the water.

“Makki- Fuck! Mattsun! Get your boyfriend off of me please!”

“Just made ramen, I’ll be a while!” Came his dismissive reply.

She groaned, cringing at the feeling of the wet fabric of her editor’s dress shirt as they continued to sink from the force of his embrace.

It wouldn’t be another twenty minutes until Mattsun decided to help her from her predicament.

From the water splashing between them both and the distant laughter of Mattsun at her discomfort of being far too close to her editor, (Name) hadn’t realised Makki had cried.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> look I'm not saying Mattsun and Makki are the best characters in this but that's exactly what I'm saying fIGHT ME  
> and oh my god makki is a precious boi i love him so much that beautiful cream buff boi
> 
> the working title for this was Overdue Aftercare cause look at all this fluff can you believe it??? who says i cant be a Nice Guy from time to time??  
> and Oikawa and Writer reading civil??? who are they??? want happened???
> 
>  
> 
> also just a heads up that we have entered the final stretch for ATAON - there are 10 more chapters of this thing and I am v excite to take you on this rollercoaster! that also means that if you want any of your friends to enjoy this wild ride before its over then share it with them, let them join the ranks of suffering i have in place these days.
> 
> comments and kudos give me the will to live - and thank you for almost 150 kudos and nearly 3000 reads holy shit you are all amazing. Have a safe and happy Easter - or if you don't celebrate then have a fantastic Discount Chocolate Weekend! xxx


	21. Competition

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He only ever said that type of stuff when he found someone interesting – and very rarely did his eyes flash with the same type of light that he had witnessed.
> 
> And that was all he really needed. 
> 
> //
> 
> For most, Shinpoincho was a district of opportunity and comfort.
> 
> For (Name), it was just another place she really didn’t want to call home.

_ August, 2018 _

They had landed early in the morning in the first week of August, the rest of the Japanese Representatives with them as they all made their way to their accommodation in the Athlete’s Village. The week leading up to the Asian Games had been buzzing with a nervous energy, anticipation filling their systems as the first round of their tournament grew closer and closer.

The Opening Ceremony would be held on the 18th, and while some events saw the beginning of their preliminary and qualification rounds, the volleyball tournament would not begin until the day after.

All 20 members of the Ryuujin Nippon first string had been flown out, but only twelve would be able to be on the court, the remaining eight were merely substitutions in the event of a worst case scenario; injury, illness, and the like.

But he wasn’t concerned with that, rather Oikawa was focused on the fact that _he_ had been given a place in the starting twelve – even if he wasn’t the starting setter like in his last international competition.

For all there – all athletes from the 45 participating nations – the next three and a weeks would be preparation for the 2020 Tokyo Olympics.

Oikawa Tooru revelled at the thought of a challenge.  

A challenge, and the attention that came with a revival.

Oikawa, Kuroo, Bokuto, and Ushijima had walked side by side during the Opening Ceremony, surrounded by the rest of their Ryuujin Nippon teammates donning the official tracksuit designed for the Asian Games, all four sets of eyes taking in the view of the stadium and the hundreds of other athletes present and ready to compete against each other for a podium finish. Somewhere behind them, Oikawa heard Nishinoya berate Tobio-chan to wave at a camera that had been following them as they walked.

When they returned to the Athlete’s Village that evening, Oikawa felt at peace. It felt familiar, but he knew it wouldn’t last. It was as if he had become the calm before the storm, lying in wait for his chance to wreak havoc on the land before him.

He had to admit – it would be hard to steal the spotlight from one of Japan’s strongest selection of volleyballs in recent years.

But again, Oikawa Tooru revelled at the thought of a challenge.

 

* * *

  

They had avoided each other for most of the two weeks of practice; whether actively or by circumstance Oikawa was not sure.

What he was sure of, however, was that there was always a limit to how lenient life would be in letting him avoid his problems.

Bokuto cornered him right before their first preliminary match against, pulling him into a deserted hallway a few turns away from centre court of the stadium. The rest of the team had been in the middle of warming up, and for a brief moment Oikawa was sure that the boys were actively avoiding his gaze.

The monochrome-haired male glanced around, checking the corners of the hallway before he stopped in front o his teammate, arms folded across his broad chest.

There was silence – that had been a common occurrence between them these days – before the spiker shifted his weight, letting him stand up straight.

“I don’t want anything to change for us.”

Oikawa frowned, hands on his hips. “Has anything changed for us?”

Bokuto flinched ever so slightly before he pushed forward, gathering the remains of his nerve.

“You tell me, Tooru.”

“Is this about what happened between you and Writer-chan?”

Bokuto swallowed the lump in his throat. The grip on around his own forearms tightened. “It involves you now – don’t act like you don’t know.”

The brunet blinked in confusion. The look on Bokuto’s face was one of sure conviction; which was incorrect – Oikawa Tooru didn’t have a _fucking clue_ about what was going on.

There was a moment of consideration from the spiker before he sighed.

“Look, (Name) is finally in a good place and she doesn’t need you being an ass and ruining all her progress. We’ve worked too hard and-”

“ _We_?”

“And I wanted her to _stay happy_ no matter what _you_ try and do to her.”

Oikawa blinked confusedly.

She was _happy_?

“Are you sure about that?”

The words escaped his lips faster than he could stop them, brain impulsively vomiting them out on reflex.

Bokuto remained quiet, but Oikawa saw the flicker of doubt shimmer through his eyes, like a flash of distant lightning in golden fields.

As he looked back on to their encounters in the Prime of their relationship, Writer-chan had been happy with him – sure – but as soon as he left, she regressed back to the disheartened shell of a woman he had come to know over the course of a few drinking sessions.

What good was progress if it wasn’t sustained?

What good was happiness if it didn’t last when the source went away?

And if Writer-chan was anything like he was, then she saw so much more to life than the fleeting sense of happiness that people craved, saw more than the content that was promised in wherever they would end up.

“Did you ever think that maybe there was more to her life than just ‘being happy’? Like, what else could you have offered?”

A guttural growl emanated from the bottom of the spiker’s throat, and then he was in Oikawa’s face. One of his hands had tightened around the collar of the setter’s jersey, pulling both the material taught between his grasp and the man closer to him.

“Don’t talk like you know (Name), yeah? No matter what’s going on between you two right now, you don’t know _anything_ about who she is and what she’s gone through.”

“And what pray-tell _is_ going on between us then, because I sure as hell don’t know!”

It was as if the world moved in slow motion; Oikawa saw the flash of uncertainty in the spiker’s eye, saw it linger and swirl like tendrils of smoke from a cigarette. And then it fizzled, slowly, being replaced with a frustration that was akin to the type he faced in his Emo Mode – where the reality of failure was far too much for him to take.

It was curious – as if the man before him were trying to hold on to something that wasn’t his.

Oikawa stepped forward slightly. “Are you sure that _you_ know her, Tarou-chan?” The brunet titled his chin upward. “What if she never needed your ‘help’?”

Bokuto’s grip tightened a little more. He twisted his wrist, pulling the other male by the collar closer towards him.

Footsteps, heavy and hurried, echoed against the barren walls of the corridor.

“Hey, hey! Break that shit up!”

Kuroo pulled the monochrome-haired male out of range from the brunet, standing between the two of them his arms extended to the side and a stern glare on his face.

“I don’t even wanna know what you both were doing, but I’m telling you both right now to cut the fucking crap and get your heads on straight! Our match starts in fifteen minutes and you’re here being complete fuckwits. _Get it together_!” The blocker hissed the last few words, lips curling into a threatening snarl at both of his teammates.

Kuroo glanced at Bokuto, then at Oikawa, then back to Bokuto again.

He sighed deeply.

“You good?”

The wing spiker nodded with a slight huff. “Dandy.”

“Coach’s looking for you, probably gonna go over last minute game plans.”

Bokuto knew that that had been a demand, and an angry Kuroo was not a force to be reckoned with. So he nodded, walking in the direction the bedhead had come from, not before brushing shoulders with the setter.

Oikawa straightened out his back as he passed, returning the challenging aura that was coming from the other male.

And the Bokuto was gone, leaving Oikawa and Kuroo to exhale in unison; Oikawa in relief, Kuroo in exasperation.

“You _really_ love riling people up, don’t you Oiks?”

“He came at me, it was self-defence.”

“Well what did you expect?” Kuroo asked, finally turning his body to face the shorter male. “Owls are birds of prey, and you’ve been encroaching on his territory for a while now.”

Oikawa folded his arms across his chest. Kuroo shifted his weight, pivoting to face the setter front on, trying to appear level-headed.

“We saw you that night. Me and Bo. You were with His Writer.”

“You of all people should know that ladies don’t enjoy being objectified like that, Tetsu-chan.”

“And _you_ had to have noticed that our Owl Boy feels a very particular way about her.”

Kuroo watched as the brunet blinked slowly, waiting for the pieces to fall into place-

“Oh my God, he said he loved her.”

Kuroo didn’t confirm nor deny.

“Is _that_ what happened between Tarou-chan and Writer-chan?” Oikawa stepped forward, curiosity splashed across his face as if it were a haphazard paint job. “They fell out because he had genuine _feelings_ for her?”

“Apparently there’s more to it,” Kuroo resigned, “more than what Bo knows… And you’ve made yourself unlucky because he thinks it’s because of you.” The bedhead shrugged as he watched the cogs in the short male’s mind spin. “You’re one of Japan’s best setter’s, Oiks… You should know all about the importance of timing.”

The setter frowned.

“I can’t control the days of the year, Tetsu-chan.”

Kuroo shrugged, “Still pretty bad timing man, you had to have known things were a little… iffy.”

Sure he had, he didn’t know that there was romantic subplot going on in their two people’s lives, but his understanding was that something wasn’t _right_ , and it was something he couldn’t put his finger on.

The bedhead stirred him from his thoughts.

“I know you’re happy that you’re on the team again Oikawa – fuck I’m so _proud_ of you – but you haven’t paid attention to anything going on around you.” His voice dropped an octave, teetering on the edge between mad and frustrated. “Nagakaichi hasn’t noticed it but the rest of us have – Bokuto isn’t doing so hot, and whenever someone asks about it, he looks at _you_.”

The setter clenched his jaw, letting the sharp curve of the bone jut out.

“I had nothing to do with it.” Oikawa confirmed, steeling his voice with his usual Captain Authority™. “The fact you think that I did something is insulting.”

Kuroo scoffed. “You expect me to believe that?”

“I expect you to trust me because we’re _friends_ , Tetsu-chan.” Oikawa frowned. “ _She_ invited _me_ out for my birthday; nothing more, nothing less. If he’s got beef about how she’s doing mentally or her feelings towards him, he should be getting mad at Writer-chan, not me.”

Most people would have left the conversation there, would have dropped the topic in fear of going around and around in circles.

Kuroo Tetsurou was not that type of person.

He was on the precipice of an answer – of an explanation of substance that would solve almost all of his current problems and pressing issues. He just needed to try harder, to make the next few moves matter.

“Be honest with me – friend to friend.” Kuroo stepped forward again, now almost toe to toe with the brunet. His voice was hushed, borderline whisper in case someone was listening in on them. “Are you just fucking around with Bo’s feelings, or are you serious about-”

“Th-”

“About _whatever_ it is that is going on with the Writer?”

The setter blinked.

_What_ was _going on between him and Writer-chan_?

“The last I had heard you were at each other’s throats when Bo stepped into the picture and now you’re awfully buddy-buddy with each other.”

The setter’s lips pulled themselves into a thin line as his mind forced him to look back the beginning of the year – all those months ago. Where had the time gone?

But the reflection made him wonder; what had changed?

Sure, the dinner had been bearable in the most mundane of moments, somewhat entertaining in others, but that didn’t mean much. When compared to other dates and dinners and meetings he had had over the years, it wasn’t the worst, and it certainly wasn’t the best.

Bearable.

Tolerable.

_Pleasant_.

He frowned – no, pleasant wasn’t what he wanted to say… Even if it _did_ match how he felt about the evening they had together.

And that, then, lead his train of thought into considering why he had willingly gone to dinner with her in the first place. There was nothing telling him that he had to – his only plan was to talk to her for an hour or two and then leave, to fill the uncomfortable void of loneliness he had developed over the course of the day’s events. And yet he went outside in public with the writer, and then proceeded to enjoy parts of it.

It was curious – and he could see why Bokuto was very quick to jump on to the attack.

But there was nothing going on between them unless-

“We aren’t friends.”

Kuroo raised a brow at him.

“But I don’t _hate_ her. She’s-”

“ _Different_.”

Oikawa’s eyes widened in surprise as Kuroo responded with him.

The blocker couldn’t help but shake his head at him. Four years of studying with the guy, with living and training and competing with him made him a little easier to read.

He only ever said that type of stuff when he found someone interesting – and very rarely did his eyes flash with the same type of light that he had witnessed.

And that was all he really needed.

Kuroo pivoted on his heel to walk past the setter, laying a hand on his shoulder as he stepped away from him. “Don’t fuck this up.”

Oikawa frowned, turning to follow the direction the blocker was travelling. “For who?”

He couldn’t see what face Kuroo had pulled.

“For _yourself_.”

 

* * *

  

The next eight days of preliminary and play-off matches were a breeze – not too out of character for the team when considering their previous records. When compared to both the 2014 and 2010 Games in particular, Ryuujin Nippon had always dominated in the early stages of the competition.

And that skill had led them to skip directly into the Top 10, easily keeping up with their performances from years gone by and setting them up for a successful final week.

While the hype continued around them, nothing was set in stone. The possibility of finishing with eight consecutive wins across all the rounds was starting to become a reality.

No doubt due to the sudden firepower of Bokuto Koutarou.

Coach Nagakaichi had not been kidding when he said that Tobio-chan had congealed well with the rest of the team in his absence, but Oikawa hadn’t been expecting such a stable performance from their wing spiker.

His right arm was a canon, and his stamina seemed to double ten-fold when he was back in the vanguard. The sound of the volleyball hitting the court ricocheted around the stadium, and it was strong enough to elicit physical reactions from not only their opponents, but the people watching them at that very moment.

The cameras had flashed to the Tokyo-native spiker multiple times, and each instance of his appearance, Oikawa recognised the intense determination that he wore – the light casted down around them painted shadowy war paint onto his defined cheeks and around the sharp curve of his jaw. Unwavering – that’s the only word that came to mind about his teammate in that moment.

But that stability made him a little antsier – because of their success, the backup plan Coach had planned was not needed, not even considered for a moment. And Oikawa was getting nervous, getting concerned that maybe he would only stand on the sidelines and not revive his legacy on the court itself.

It scared him.

He wouldn’t admit that out loud.

It wasn’t until the third set of the team’s semi-final match that Nagakaichi had decided to swap Oikawa in.

It was the first time he had stepped on to the court during an official match in 10 months.

Japan had won the first two sets with minimal difficulty, and so the third and final set would be a crucial checkpoint to their journey in the tournament. If they won, they would immediately be placed into the Gold medal match.

China had been given first serve of the set, but the point was immediately taken by a successful kill block from Kuroo. The whistle blew, and all attention diverted itself to the side line where Oikawa stood, right hand holding the small sign that read ‘16’.

Bokuto’s number.

The wing spiker stepped up to meet him, wrapping his fingers around the top of the paddle. The monochrome-haired male avoided his gaze, instead choosing to walk past with a brief tap on the shorter man’s shoulder before he stood with the rest of their waiting teammates.

And then he stepped forward, stepped beyond, listening as his shoes squeaked against the floorboards with every confident step forward. Kuroo was in the vanguard, and sent him a shit-eating grin – as if their encounter a few weeks before had never happened.

Tobio-chan stood next to the senior middle blocker, glancing back at his middle-school upperclassman and sending him a nod of greeting.

Oikawa kept walking towards the back.

Someone handed him the ball.

Ushijima.

Oikawa stopped before him, grabbing the ball with his left hand as he squared off his shoulders intimidatingly. The ace looked at him once over, eyes narrowed slightly as he examined his childhood rival’s form.

“Nice serve.”

And then he returned to his position in the opposite corner, leaving Oikawa to take position on the back line.

The brunet poked his cheek into his tongue, refraining from clicking it at his teammate.

As if he needed the reminder.

But a small part of him was thankful for the moment – at least Ushiwaka-chan had kept his unwavering faith in his abilities. That had to be good for something.

Oikawa took his place on the backline, bouncing the ball in front of him a few times to steel his nerves into place. There were a few cheers from behind him, select groups of scatter individuals calling out his name and screaming at him.

He exhaled deeply.

The whistle blew.

The ball went up.

And Oikawa’s mind went blank from everything in the match, instead being consumed with every frustration while his body went on autopilot.

Stupid Tarou-chan.

_Thwack_.

Stupid Tetsu-can.

_Thwack_.

Stupid Tobio-chan.

_Thwack_.

Stupid Writer-chan.

_Thwack_.

Stupid Life.

_Thwack._

Get out of my head.

_Thwack._

Stop making me tolerate you.

_Thwack_.

Why do I tolerate you?

_Thwack._

What is wrong with me?

_Thwack._

Why am I still thinking about you?

_Thwack._

Why are you still in my head?

Get out of my head.

Get out of my head.

_Get out of my head._

**_Get out of my head-_ **

The whistle chirped again, longer and steadier in its tone, forcing Oikawa out of his state of mind and bringing him back to reality.

There was screaming and cheering in the distance, and suddenly he was rammed head on with a wall of noise from his teammates as the swarmed onto the court. Oikawa extended his hands out, barely catching himself on the presence of the other men around him, slapping his back and arms and head with wide grins on their faces.

He looked around, beyond the bodies the clustered him, towards the scoreboard that was attached to the distant screen displaying the huddle of red, white and black to the still roaring crowds.

**China          Japan**

1                  25

They won.

They were a contender for the Gold medal.

_He had won an entire set through his serves alone._

The rest of the post-game cool down had been a blur of colours and compliments, with splashed appearances of Coach Nagakaichi’s knowing and proud smile and the waves of support from the Japanese people who had come all that way to support them.

After they had cleared everything off the court and thanked their opponents, the team were immediately lead into a large room, forced to sit and answer questions from the many journalists and their crews about their performance and their expectations for the final day of the Asian Games.

Oikawa swear he saw Iwa-chan lurking in the darkened corners of the conference room.

Most of the questions going to Bokuto Koutarou.

_All_ of the questions going directly to Bokuto Koutarou.

The brunet forced himself not to appear salty, knowing very well that even if the people weren’t bothering with _him_ there was still a likelihood that someone out there was watching his every action like a hawk.

But his reservation didn’t mean he wasn’t irked – if anything, it heightened it.

Sure, his 15 Minutes of Fame didn’t amount the hours of playtime Bokuto had in the tournament, but the fact alone that Oikawa had successfully secured an entire set in 25 consecutive service aces was an impressive feat in its own right.

He saw it justified to be angry at the lack of recognition, at the lack of acknowledgment they were showing him because _he was a part of the team as well, someone just talk to him-_

Oikawa exhaled softly through his nose, rolling his shoulders to relieve the slow-forming knot between the joints as Bokuto answered another question for the team.

In his silence, he couldn’t help but let his mind wander to her, felt the soft breeze caress his face. For a second, it was as if he were back in Mejirodai on his balcony. The sound of her voice ruminated throughout his skull and wrapped around him like the non-existent breeze.

_‘You want to be praised and appreciated like the narcissist ass you are, right?’_

And then her tone softened.

_‘The way I see it, you and I are some of the lucky ones.’_

The setter frowned to himself mentally, stringing together the fragments of the writer his mind had stored away for a different time and place.

Volleyball was a team sport; the winners was the team with the six strongest players, the six players who were a well-oiled machine that complemented each other in moments of need. Yes, he was a spare part this time around, but that part of him was subbed in – was needed at a moments notice and supplemented for one of cogs when they were worn out.  

While Writer-chan had a curious understanding of the Dream Job versus the Reality of Life, Oikawa couldn’t deny the truth he saw it in. Success and praise was always a good thing – one could never have enough attention, particularly when it was earned – but when nothing was given for extremely long amounts of time it became degrading to be ignored.

He was a lucky one; he knew that very well – plenty of people he had met in his life had reminded him of the fact.

So perhaps for this one moment he needed to relish in the silence of his contributions, and at least consider whether or not working for himself and his own pride was enough of a motivator for the rest of his life.

By the time they returned to the Athlete’s Village, he still held no definitive answer.

 

* * *

  

This was a mistake.

A horrible, horrible mistake.

If there had been one thing she would regret on her deathbed, it was this moment.

(Surname) (Name) should have never gone home for Obon.

Admittedly, it was a spur of the moment decision on her part.

But it wasn’t as if she had much to run away from back home in Tokyo – the only pressing issue was that of the Naoki promotion that Makki had been quick to pin on her.

(She, Makki, and Mattsun had found themselves in her lounge room in varying degrees of damp after the fiasco with the bathtub. The trio were huddled in her lounge, Mattsun and Makki seated on the sofa while (Name) resided on the floor, dripping onto the floorboards with a towel wrapped around her midsection while she had another one wrapped around her mop of hair.

“How are you organising these things so quickly?” She asked exasperatedly. “Didn’t it get announced this morning?”

“10am today.” Makki nodded in confirmation, scrolling through pages of information on his laptop while leaning into his partner’s side. Mattsun sat cross-legged, cradling his bowl of ramen. “But I have regular contacts that like to make sure that they have the upper hand in scheduling an appointment with you.”

“That’s scary.”

“It’s smart.”

“You work too quickly.” She deadpanned.

“Not a fan?”

“Hardly. It makes my mornings a nightmare.”

“Now whatever could you mean, (Surname)? Isn’t having a handsome guy like me interrupt your Alone Time a dream come true?”

She knew that he was messing with her, but the thought of her interrupted bath and the wasted bath salts made her want to smother him with her towel. She chose against it.)

While most of Makki’s promotion schedule was annoying, it was manageable. She could break it off into more consumable pieces.

And yet, something had told her to go home for the holiday.

When she arrived back in the Tennoji ward, it was the first day of Obon, and in the early morning light she willed herself to go to catch the next train out to Shinpoincho.

There was a certain hesitancy that bloomed within her stomach as the (h/c)-haired woman stepped out into the open air surrounding Shinpoincho station. (Name) attributed it more to the drastic changes to the visual façade of her hometown district, rather than on to her own faults.

Shinpoincho was not a place where people could spout about their ‘humble upbringings’; in recent years the district had steadily increased in property value, and with large houses and modern architecture working in unison with the upper middle class families that resided there, it quickly earned it’s title of Japan’s Classiest Neighbourhood.

And fancy it was – selective high schools and semi-private academies were the cornerstones of the community, and the overarching sense of ‘We’re Doing Better Than Most’ was enough to drive that title to the extreme.

The writer had lived there for most of her life; and there wasn’t much to it that interested her.

For most, Shinpoincho was a district of opportunity and comfort.

For (Name), it was just another place she really didn’t want to call home.

Her family home was on the upper north side of the district, a few minutes’ walk away from the station, which gave the writer enough time to formulate some form of excuse as to why she had suddenly decided to appear on the biggest Buddhist holiday of the year after what was currently five years of silence.

She didn’t have one.

But there was a part of her that believed she didn’t need one – not when she was sure that what was left of her family would be more concerned over her health and well-being rather than her attitude.

A little over fifteen minutes later she reached the large wooden gates of a familiar two-storey house. A small plaque of plated gold rested to the left of the main entrance displaying two kanji that made her frown.

**_KOBAYASHI_ **

With a heavy sigh she entered the property, weaving up the small square they had called a lawn and towards the front door where she knocked, loudly. The sound echoed slightly before there was shuffling, a click of a lock and then-

“(Name)-chan! Is that really you?”

She pulled her lips into a small grin and bowed in greeting, mentally cursing because _when did grandma and gramps start living back here??_

“I’m just as surprised as you are, Grandmother.” She answered, unable to brace herself when the old woman reached out and locked her index finger and thumb around the swell of her cheek in a tight pinch.

“And just as smart-mouthed as ever, I see! Well, you still grew up into such a beautiful young woman; you did take more after your mother, all beauty and wit and sass to boot!”

She was quickly ushered in, and the rest of the Kobayashi household was woken up and greeted with the sight of the estranged daughter of the family. Her father had looked down at her from the staircase with pride, a look that she so desperately wanted to wipe off of his face, but refrained from doing so because of the time of year.

Breakfast had been a quiet affair, (Name) and her father remained on opposite sides of the table, both glaring up a storm at each other due to their last encounter, avoiding the inquisitive of the two eldest Kobayashi family members.

As it reached closer to midday, her grandmother forced all four of them to visit their family shrine to begin their official celebration of Obon.

Perhaps the hardest part of leaving Osaka was not being able to see the memorial her father’s side of the family had made in her honour.

It hadn’t changed much in her absence, still displaying the photo of the oldest (Surname) in her prime; it was a candid moment, most likely from her parents honeymoon. She never asked because she was sure her father had no real recollection of it, like other things.

There were signs of wear and tear around her small memorial, the strange traces of incense from the ceremonial burnings, and the remnants of food offerings left to the side of the small frame. From her memories, (Name) didn’t know what her mother worshipped, but a part of her knew that she would have at least appreciated the sentiment of her once whole family.

Her grandparents had liked her, at least that was the assumption she had made over her youth, and were not at all bitter about the divorce. If anything, their only grudge was the custody she gained over their only grandchild, the only child on the Kobayashi side that they were able to see frequently. But the signs of visiting were proof enough for her, especially since her grandmother was still one of the sole caretakers of the family shrine.

They prayed together for blessings from their ancestors – (Name) kept her head down and remained quiet for their prayer, unsure of who she should really be talking to. When she was younger she would ask for similar guidance, these days the spiritual side of life hadn’t the same appeal as when she was younger.

So instead she silently thought of her mother, of their last day together in her childhood, and the vague memories she had of the woman she loved and yet never knew properly. It would be enough for the spirits, and if it wasn’t she still had a few weeks to make up for it.

 

* * *

 

 “You can leave at any time, (Name)-chan, but it is nice having you back around.”

Those were the first and last words she had heard from her grandfather before he disappeared to his study. She was meant to be leaving a few days before the closing Obon celebrations, but the guilt she had felt from her old man’s old man was enough to get her to stick around for a little while longer.

She was fine with that.

Especially since her father had returned to work and was no longer up in her business.

Instead it was herself and her grandparents in the family home; her grandfather leaving every now and then to indulge himself in the joys of retirement while her grandmother hounded her about life in the capital city, about her career and about how she was doing without any of them there.

(Name) hadn’t the heart to tell her that she enjoyed the freedom more than she did living with them.

“You may look like your mother but you were always so much like your grandfather; a lone wolf just like he was.” The old woman had laughed, waving her hand up to the second floor where the other rooms resided. (Name) had chuckled – her grandmother really had no idea.

She spent as much time as she could with her, knowing full well that the next she would visit wouldn’t be a long time, a result of personal preference rather than circumstance if she were honest.

On her last evening, they let her spend her remaining time alone – something they wouldn’t have done when she were younger.

So she ate dinner with them, then immediately retreated to her old bedroom to finish packing the rest of her belongings she had left scattered about the house; a few jackets, a notebook or two, and her dignity.

She ducked into their common room, sneaking in and out to grab another stray belonging, but paused at the door, unable to turn after as she caught sight of the TV.

Bo.

Seeing him head to toe in the Ryuujin Nippon was certainly different to the versions of him she had seen where he remained decked out in the training gear. There was an air of superiority to him, a sense of pride and skill that emanated from his being. She wondered if that was normal, if being recognised internationally was enough to offset whatever fear about themselves a person had.

Her eyes glanced across the screen to the headline and the scrolling by-line of text beneath it.

**RYUUJIN NIPPON SECURES GOLD AT 18** **TH** **ASIAN GAMES**

_WING SPIKER BOKUTO KOUTAROU NAMED MVP OF TOURNAMENT AFTER STELLAR PERFORMANCE_

The commentary from the Sports correspondent heralded as one of Japan’s best performances at the Asian Games in years – with the last gold medal in volleyball being won in 2010. While they tended to get a podium finish in the Asiad, this was a different display of power and prowess.

She lingered there, watching footage from all eight matches Japan played and keeping her eyes trained on the monochrome-haired man. Though most of the excerpts were drowned out by the simultaneous commentaries of the journalist and the J-Sport commentators themselves, she could still vividly hear the impact of Bo’s hand against the ball, the ball against the court, and his celebratory yell over all the surrounding noise. The angles changed, and for a second she swore his golden eyes weren’t looking at the camera but at her.

And then as quickly as the close up of his smiling face appeared, it vanished, immediately being replaced by a familiar brunet, with cold eyes and a calculative and pensive stare.

Oikawa.

Though their comments on the former starting setter were brief, it gave her enough of a backdrop to what she was watching in the report. He had first been subbed in during their semi-final match, and then again in the fourth set of the Gold medal match. On both occasions he had secured the set from his serves alone, 25 points in a row.

He hadn’t grinned or smiled in the way she expected the brunet to do, as if he were too far gone in his own thoughts about the match to remember to seem at the least a bit likeable for the media.

No one else seemed to care about that.

And naturally so did she, letting her thoughts wander back to the spiker and the new aura that surrounded him as she retreated to her room once more.

He looked happy.

Genuinely happy.

(Name) found herself smiling.

Akaashi’s plan had worked.

And maybe the distance was for the best – she didn’t feel all that lonely without him anymore.

But while the immediate discomfort she had had dissipated, she came to realise that the underlying emptiness was still there – that no matter how much Bo did for her, no matter how much she had changed over a few months, it still wasn’t enough to fill the void she felt inside her.

 

* * *

  

“You seem well.”

“I did get a whole 3 hours of sleep today, which is always a nice surprise.”

“For you, (Surname)-san, that’s a miracle.”

Nakamura tapped her pen on to her clipboard, watching as her patient continued to settle into the couch opposite her.

“What I really mean is that you’re doing a lot better than from when we started our sessions early this year.”

The writer pursed her lips together. “In what way?”

“Perhaps it is too much for me to say, but you have become happier than when you first walked in, maybe a bit more pleasant.”

(Name) refrained from making a snarky comment – it had only been a day after she arrived back to the prefecture, she didn’t need to go reverting.

But that didn’t mean she didn’t want the help.

“Y’know it’s great Doc – general happiness and all the bullshit is always great… that wasn’t the reason I started coming to you in the first place in all these extra notes that you’ve made.” She gestured to the clipboard, watching as the therapist narrowed her eyes curiously.

“Ah yes, the burnout.”

The woman hummed, flicking through her pages all the way to the start where she then proceeded to tap the page with the wrong end of her pen. “Indeed.” There was more shuffling of paper. “We tried to address it; decreasing the workload, writing about different topics-”

“And I’ve won a bunch of awards, gotten more critical acclaim and I am still very much unsatisfied with where I am right now.”

“Have you written anything else these days?”

(Name) shook her head. “Nope. I’m technically ahead of schedule so I’m giving myself a few months.”

“Your anthology, that was the last thing you’ve published professionally, yes?”

“Yeah. I finished that in May and we published in June.”

“And in these few months since its release, have you started feeling any rekindling of flames of your passion?”

“Don’t try and be dramatic with your metaphors, Doc, that’s my job.” She hummed, folding her arms. “And no, it’s still kind of _there_.”

“What’s there?”

“The _emptiness_.”

Nakamura waited – _God_ (Name) forgot how much she disliked the poised silence of her therapist.

“It’s like, yeah, all these awards are proof that I’m good at what I do, but it still doesn’t mean anything because that’s all they are; meaningless trophies and titles that don’t do much what me, but do something for my agents. They get given out every year, and there’ll be other record breakers when I’m long gone so what’s the point, y’know? And like, maybe I distracted myself from that emptiness because… I’m scared it won’t go away – like I’ll just have to live with it and I don’t want to be so broken, y’know? Not when I know that it’s possible to be whole for the first time in a while.”

“Has writing always been a separate entity to the rest of your personality, then, rather than an extension of who you are?” Nakamura inquired. The writer shrugged.

“Always. For most of my life I’ve been content with storytelling and all the things that come with it, and haven’t been okay with whatever cards life have dealt me. These days it’s the opposite… And maybe I don’t want them to be inverse, maybe I want them to actually reflect each other… or at least _coincide_ with each other a little more so I’m not so fucked, y’know?”

For the first time in a long time, (Name) felt her shoulders ease of their tension, as if the verbal realisation was enough to cure her of her stress, even if for a moment.

It wasn’t enough for the therapist.

“What happened to that new friend of yours?”

(Name) gulped as subtly as she could. “He has to focus on his career; he just finished competing in Jakarta and the FIVB is coming up.” She supplied, watching as the older woman took note.

The therapist stood up, sauntering over to her desk while the writer watched her shuffle her clipboard and pen into her right hand. She bent over the shorter side of the desk, pulling open a drawer she couldn’t see before she retreated, a familiar paperback book in her left hand.

The anthology.

“That’s a copy from the fourth run.”

“You can tell?”

(Name) nodded. “There have been some… stylistic differences between myself and the Head Editor. The third had second are much lighter in colour, and every other run after them has left shifted text. The fourth run is the only one to have a the text shifted over to the right and a darker shade on the cover.

“Except the rare first run, am I correct?”

She hummed. “I liked the original design a little better.”

“For someone who doesn’t feel like her career is worth doing, you are quite invested in what you do.”

The writer shrugged. “You said I needed to take more agency in my career, and as far as I’m concerned that includes the designs for the things I release.”

The older woman nodded, somewhat surprised she had actually applied her advice to her life.

“You returned to your original style with this release.”

“Like you suggested.”

“I’m quite fond of this myself, I can see myself in a few of the personalities you wrote about.”

“Then I’m doing my job well, that’s the whole point of the work.”

“It’s no surprise that you’d do it well, (Surname)-san.” Nakamura crossed the room again and returned to her usual seat across the way from her patient.  “Have you been writing for anything in particular?” (Name) opened her mouth to respond. “Besides your own personal satisfaction.”

The younger woman crossed one leg over the other. “Recently? No-one but myself.”

“I see…” Nakamura began flipping through a few pages of the book, the sound of the paper fluttering filled the atmosphere. “But I couldn’t help but notice that there were a few similarities across a few of the poems… The preface talks about the context of creation, and I began thinking… And perhaps it’s my own misreading of your text – or maybe just reading too far into something – but it seems like a small selection of them are about the same person.”

She faltered.

“It can be read that way, certainly.”

“But is it true?”

She forced herself not to cough.

“What if it is?”

“Then there’s what you should start writing for. That person. Or at least consider them as a source of inspiration.” Nakamura shut the book. “There are only 20 poems in this entire anthology, (Surname)-san, and from my amateur analysis and count, there are at least 5 poems about the same person. That’s one quarter of your recent release.

“It wouldn’t be wrong if you found a muse – or at least _something_ you are interested in – some creators go their entirely life without finding something to inspire them. And you said it yourself, maybe you had finally found ‘a life worth exploring, and a life lived in reflection of my own’.”

(Name) blinked, immediately recognising the poem and stanza that line came from.

Poem 13; _Parallel_.

She frowned.

“Be honest with me,” (Name) began, “how many times did you have to read the book in order to piece that together?”

“A few times,” the therapist admitted, “but the connection was made clear after finding the fourth poem. It was difficult in making sure I was right, but I’m only a novice in literary analysis.”

“But it was still relatively difficult?”

“You write with simple words, but that doesn’t mean the work itself is simply understood (Surname)-san.”

“I like layers of complexity – if you figure it out on the first try then it’s not worth it.”

“And perhaps that, too, is your problem.” Nakamura mused. “Your lack of transparency could tire you out – the more secrets you keep the less invested you feel in writing for your own existence… And you said it yourself; _Transparency is the second step to stop being an ass_.”

The (h/c)-haired woman frowned. She had never said that aloud in one of their sessions.

“Hanamaki-san said he overheard you saying it yourself, he found it rather amusing.” Nakamura chuckled softly. “It’s good advice; what are the other steps?”

“They’re pretty similar – just to be more honest…”

The woman tapped her pen against the cover of the anthology. “And shouldn’t that all begin with the source of your writing, with what you write in the end?”

She didn’t answer, pulling her bottom lip between her teeth as she fell into thought, with only one sentence bouncing around in her mind.

_What exactly did he mean to her?_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh man, forget what I said about the Naoki plot point - this was the most difficult chapter to write. Like?? why did I decide to do this? I could have avoided writing about the Asian Games if I wanted to but noooo, I just //had// to write it because I wanted authenticity. Like who cares Kat its just fanfic ffs smh? What sane person decides to write up the entire tournament schedule BEFORE the actual Asian Games happens? this asshole appartently! And like?? I don't understand why I did so much research for it??? like I went all the way to the 2010 games for consistency??? and don't get me started on Writer-chan's fucKING POETRY ANTHOLOGY-
> 
> rant over, sorry about that. 
> 
> but here it is! slightly more angst and a little more character development. like I said, only a few more chapters to go and we have a lot of ground to cover now. hope you enjoyed my loves, and thank you so much for all the comments and kudos, it keeps this old girl going knowing that you all are enjoying the story as much as i have writing it!


	22. Unravel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The distance between them increased with her hurried steps.
> 
> 10 metres.
> 
> 20 metres
> 
> And then he was following after her.

_ September, 2018 _

Makki was a fast worker.

And a mere two days after the announcement of the Akutagawa Prize, he had organised another party in his writer’s honour scheduled for the first week of the month.

‘Dragon Tears’ had won, resulting in numerous literary outlets to clamour over the young writer’s stunning hat-trick; an Oe, a Naoki, and now the Akutagawa.

It was fair to say that (Name) had not be expecting quite the trifecta so early on in her career.

“Your tie isn’t done right.” She waved her hand dismissively towards her editor as she glanced at him through the reflection of the mirror.

“I was never good with knots, why’d you think I never wear ties to work?”

“Didn’t you wear a tie in high school?”

“Mattsun always fixed them for me.”

The writer rolled her eyes, mumbling something under her breath Makki couldn’t quite discern before she exited the ensuite and walked towards her editor. She waved him over to meet her halfway, and as he stepped closer she began to fiddle with the poor excuse for a Windsor knot.

“Speaking of, where is Sky Tree? Isn’t he your plus one?”

“Running late; don’t worry, he’ll be here.”

She shrugged. “You two are staying the night, yeah?”

He hummed. “Technically it’s for your non-existent plus one so thanks for being a loner.”

“If it means you’re one step closer to putting a label on it then whatever, enjoy your suite.”

Makki had organised the event in one of the banquet rooms within the Cerulean Tower Hotel in Shibuya; a high profile tourist area known for its scramble crossing and the glamour of foreign businesses – a fitting place to commemorate the successes of (Surname) (Name).

And now, it seemed, the perfect secret rendezvous for the hopeless couple.

“Be honest with me,” he began, staring at the top of her head, “do I look alright?”

She looked him once over, taking in his double breasted burgundy jacket with a contrasting black peak lapel, matching burgundy slim cut pants and a black skinny tie. (Name) brushed out the wrinkles on the fitted shoulder of his suit, then smoothed out the creases of his tie before stepping away.

“It brings out the pink in your hair,” he rolled his eyes, “but it’s nice – you should dress like this for work.”

“That’s too much effort.”

She scoffed. “And yet tonight constitutes effort?”

“I’ve got a hot date in a very fancy hotel where I don’t need to pay.”

“You’re here to work, Makki.”

“ _You’re_ here to work, I just have to make you look good.” He poked her forehead, watching as she ignored him and continued to fix the sleeves of her dress. “But you look very nice already, so I probably don’t have to do much tonight.”

(Name) frowned.

Makoto had taken the reigns of her wardrobe – albeit virtually – after (Name) had complained about the dress code for the upcoming event. ‘Lounge’ unfortunately did not mean she could show up in sweatpants; and the woman she would agree to where whatever her best friend had chosen for her. A few days later, the dress had arrived on her doorstep with a note of ‘Thank me later’ signed by the Osaka native.

Ornate, dressy, and way too formal for her tastes; the dress itself was lacey and golden in colour, vibrant against her skin and somewhat glittery in the direct lighting of the room. While conservative in style – midi in length with ¾ sleeves and a high collared neckline – it left nothing to the imagination of the casual observer. If anything, it brought more attention to the assets she would prefer to keep to herself.

“The boob window is a classy touch.” Makki hummed, eyes closed while he made a circle with his index and thumb. “Very in-your-face, it’s gonna give Hisakawa a heart attack and I approve.”

The writer rolled her eyes, hand coming up to hide the sneak peek of cleavage said boob window brought forth. The window in question was diamond shaped and started under the band of the collar and ended mid-bust – “It’s tasteful boob,” Makoto had argued when (Name) called to complain.

(“Tasteful boob is only tasteful when you want your boobs to be tasteful.”

“And?”

 _“_ There is nothing tasteful about _my boobs_ at a _work party!”_ )

“I’m gonna borrow your jacket when m’done with photos, I hope you know that.” She retorted as she returned to the bathroom to retrieve her phone.

10 minutes till the guests arrive.

“Just steal Mattsun’s, that’s what I do.”

“We can’t _both_ steal his jacket.”

“Why not? Let’s be poly for a night, freak out Hisakawa even more.”

“I said it before and I’ll say it again; I don’t want to be the meat in that sandwich.”

“You’re just lying to yourself,” Makki scoffed, reading the time off of his wristwatch while his other hand brushed through his hair. “Hisakawa’s probably here already, wanna head down?”

She shrugged, “May as well, the sooner we get this over and done with, the better.” She rolled her shoulders back twice, working out the kink between the blades. “I’m already dreading the million different speeches I’m gonna have to do tonight.”

“You get paid to be good with words, you’ll live.”

Makki headed to the door, propping it open for her while she scurried around one last time for her room key, purse and phone before they both began to descend towards the event room.

The elevator ride was quiet, save for the grumbles of (Name) as she continued to fix parts of his suit jacket – “That’s not how you put cufflinks on, idiot” – while Makki chided and ribbed her with bad jokes and sarcastic remarks.

And then they arrived.

And (Name) felt her soul leave her body when she took in her surroundings.

The party itself was designed to be a standing reception rather than a seated one, with long white covered tables lining the outskirts of the room holding trays of finger food for the guests, and small circular tables littered across the main space to allow people to mingle. (Name) wasn’t all too fond of the formality a seated event brought, and despite what Hisakawa thought, the informality of a standing reception suited her better.

It was nice, a balance between simplicity and lavishness that was enough to evoke the sense of importance that the company had wanted to show for her.

The walls had been left barren, and the only real decorations present where position on the stage – large boards that displayed the current covers of all three award-winning novels and their respective trophies beside them.

 _A Moth to Flame_ ; Oe.

 _Dragon Tears;_ Akutagawa.

 _Observations_ ; Naoki.

The layout very clearly said ‘centrepiece’.

It also violently screamed ‘HISAKAWA’.

The Head Editor had finished talking to another organiser as she and Makki entered the room, politely greeting a few other waitstaff that were lingering in the far reaches of the room. Hisakawa turned just in time for their approach.

“(Surname)! Just in time! You look-”

Hisakawa stopped, eyes settling on her-

“You look with your eyes and mine are up here.” She grumbled, moving away from Makki and towards the Head Editor. “Anything you need me to do?”

 _Please say no_.

There was a pause before the man snapped out of his reverie. “As long as you’re here, then that’s all you need to do.” He answered, taking another look around the large room again. “Just look nice, be personable, and for God’s sake – don’t drink too much.”

(Name) tilted her head and look at him. “You and I both know my alcohol tolerance is four times as good as the most social drinker.”

“And doesn’t that say you have a problem?”

“It says I have talent and I should use it more.”

“Party hasn’t even started yet, folks, please don’t get at each other’s throats now.” Makki sighed, laying a hand across her shoulder. “We’ll get ready at the door, you join us when you’ve calmed down.”

With a forceful push and the slight pinch of his fingers, Makki rotated his writer around and moved her back towards the main entrance, dispersing the group of observing staff in the process.

“You good?”

“I wanna hit him.”

“You always want to hit him, dear.”

“It’s amplified.”

Makki laughed and rubbed the shoulder he held, the small circles of his thumb not necessarily unwelcomed. “It’s just a few hours, then you can disappear into your room and sleep for the next few days.”

She lips pulled themselves into a pout, “See you say that, but I bet you’ll immediately set up an interview or conference when you have the chance.”

The taller male patted her head with his other hand, “You know me too well, (Name)-chan. No perk up! Guests in T-Minus,” he looked at his watch, “4 minutes.”

“Oh joy.”

Makki tilted his head, stepping a little closer and dropping the volume of his voice. “You sure you’re gonna be okay tonight?”

The (h/c)-haired woman nodded with a shaky sigh, brushing her hands across the hemline of her dress. “I’ll figure it out, just fake smile and nod and pretend I’m an entirely likeable person.”

The editor chuckled good naturedly, running his thumb in a few more circles before he dropped his hold on her.

And then they were quiet, only exchange subtle glances and nudges of their shoulders together. Makki had come to understand how much (Name) enjoyed silence.

Maybe not ‘enjoyed’ it.

More like she _needed_ it.

Hisakawa joined them a few minutes later, flustering over the writer one final time before his check was interrupted by the doors opening wide and the first guest of the evening waltzing in.

The CEO of the Yomiuri Shimbun.

And then all hell broke loose from that point on.

The guests that streamed in through from the main lobby of the hotel were a mix of familiar and new faces, people from all works of life in and out of the industry.

There were the casual greetings from the interviewers that usually landed an exclusive with her, to the formal introductions between herself and a producer or director or chairman of some section of a Fortune 500 company stationed in Japan. And then there were the Kodansha staff – the brief moments of bliss where (Name) could drop the façade and act as she usually did when the editors and sales consultants and accounts at the company saw her on almost a daily basis.

The most enjoyable greeting was Eikichi.

(“Am I so glad to see your face here.” (Name) breathed out a tired and exasperated breath, embracing the mangaka as he laughed at her greeting.

“It’s only been twenty minutes, you can’t be that desperate to see me.” He pulled away and laughed a little harder at the look of fatigue that had steadily ebbed in her eyes. “Oh God, I guess it’s good that I bought you congratulatory wine-”

“Have I told you how much I love you?”)

(Name)’s hands grew clammy with every exchange, and her cheeks grew sore with the smile she cemented on the lower half of her face. And by the half hour mark after the party’s beginning time, she couldn’t help but narrow her eyes at the sheer mass of bodies within the room behind her.

“How many people did you invite?” She murmured in between the brief gaps of people who were steadily entering the room.

“Definitely not the Mayor of Tokyo.” Makki replied, still wearing his faux grin as he surveyed the room.

“I did, it’s good exposure.” Hisakawa interjected suddenly, making the writer narrow her eyes and grumble a string of explicit words under her breath at him.

“And Chairman Noma’s _nephew_?” She growled at him, jutting her chin out towards the Kodansha Publishing President standing amidst of colleagues with his twenty-something year old nephew, who smiled in a similar manner as his uncle. Hisakawa didn’t follow her gaze, but shrugged all the same.

“That was Chairman Noma’s doing.”

Her grumbling died in her throat.

And then the final guests of the evening slowly filed in, and the security guards of the Cerulean slowly shut both doors behind them, their silhouettes painted on to the frosted glass by the hallway lights.

“Still no sign of lover boy.” (Name) murmured under her breath, watching as her editor glanced around at the guests milling about

“Missing our boyfriend already?” Makki fired back teasingly.

“Do I have to go vegetarian for you to understand?”

“You love the thought, don’t lie.”

“Can you two stop being a nuisance right now?” Hisakawa butted

The pair shared a look with each other, then glanced back towards the senior editor, then back at each other before they split off from him wordlessly, under the guise that the bodies would distract from the rude departure.

(Name) was sure that it didn’t.

But that, of course, made it all the better.

 

* * *

 

Mattsun had ditched him an hour after they both arrived at the hotel.

(“You’ll be good, yeah?” The former asked as he scanned the room before them.

“I have no idea what I’m doing.”

Mattsun clapped his hand on Oikawa’s shoulder. “Neither do I Oiks, live with it.”)

Once Makki had been spotted, Mattsun was gone in a flash, ditching his friend for his boyfriend.

Oikawa should have known this would happen.

It didn’t help that they were very late.

But some things couldn’t be helped, like the unprecedented amount of tourists that were in Shibuya on a Monday night. And Mattsun’s insistence on looking good for the evening.

If he were honest, he wasn’t sure as to why he was there that evening.

Mattsun had argued he needed moral support – that even though he was Makki-Makki’s plus one, the editor would be too busy to spend time with him. The Hopeless Couple had also invited Iwa-chan, though they weren’t too sure if the spiky-haired male would be able to attend.

It was humorous to see them act as if it were their party and not for the fact Makki’s writer had done something in her usual record-breaking manner.

And there, he asked himself again, what in the actual fuck was he doing here?

They talked, sure; they had dinner once, sure; Bokuto Koutarou was certain he had laid a claim on her life, sure-

But there still wasn’t reason for him to be at what Makki had called ‘The Most Important Literary Function of 2018’.

He was an athlete for God’s sake – there was literally no point for him to be there, especially if his ‘moral support’ went to have sex in a linen cupboard.

(As quickly as the thought came, he forced himself to bleach it from his mind with another long sip of alcohol.)

“Are you Oikawa Tooru?”

Oikawa blinked back into reality and turned to his right, immediately being met with a middle aged man, balding behind the ears and dressed in a grey suit half a size too small for his body. “That’s the name my parents gave me.” He nodded with a laugh, forcing the stranger to chuckle along. He extended his hand, and the brunet’s entire hand was engulfed into a firm shake, slightly clammy and just a little uncomfortable.

“My name is Yamagata Masahiro, I write for the Mainichi Shimbun. My son is a big fan, he’s a setter too – not a starter but he’s only a first year so there’s plenty of time to improve! My wife works in advertising and she designed one the Ryuujin Nippon promotional posters for the Asian Games, and he asked her to swipe one for him. He keeps it in his room, said it motivates him to be better. He’s our oldest, see, and he doesn’t have much to look up to besides his old man, so I guess I have to thank you for making him try a little harder.”

The journalist had not stopped shaking his hand.

Oikawa was sure he was slowly losing feeling in his digits.

But the sentiment was nice, and it left a warm feeling in his chest. As far as he was concerned, the only person who looked up to him was Takeru. Unless you played setter, your favourite tended to be a big hitter.

“If you have something on you, I could give you an autograph for him?”

A man lit up eagerly and immediately pulled out a small notepad and pen – as if he were completely prepared for an interview or inside scoop – before he handed it over to the national athlete.

Every scratch of his pen was punctuated with another detail from the man, all before he thank him again and disappeared into the room with a few more hurried words of parting.

And then he was alone.

Not for long.

Because it seemed the flood gate of people noticing who he was had opened through the leak that was Yamagata Masahiro.

He hardened his face into the usual façade he wore. He smiled and greeted a few other guests as they approached, laughing at jokes he was probably meant to understand and didn’t, all while trying to catch the attention of one of his two friends that had continuously weaved in and out of the bustling room like the pair of _fucking assholes_ that they were.

And then there was a lull in foot traffic for a minute, Oikawa running out of champagne to throw back down his throat. But before he could reach the incoming waiter, he was trapped, pinned down by the sudden presence of another man, older than most of the guests in the room, and a sense of importance about him that was more than curious.

“Oikawa Tooru, yes?” He nodded, eyes narrowing as he examined the person before him. “Lovely to meet you, son.”

Greying streaks and ends of black hair, slicked into a 6:4 split and then pushed off his face, a pair of tired, beady eyes, and a slightly grizzled demeanour – of a man who has seen almost everything people had to offer and was looking for something else.

He remembered the description well, and now putting Name to Face was a different ballpark Makki should have prepared him for.

“It’s an honour to meet you, sir.” Oikawa grabbed the Chairman’s extended hand with both of his, bowing at a complete 90 degree angle. His body screamed polite, his mind was yelling obscenities at Makki-Makki and Mattsun for _leaving him alone at a fucking party with Makki-Makki’s boss like what kind of friend’s do that?_

_WHY AM I MEETING MAKKI-MAKKI’S BOSS’ BOSS?!_

“The pleasure is all mine, I assure you. Teppei! Come say hello to your upperclassman,” Oikawa lifted himself from the deep bow, watching as the greying man waved another man, closer to his own age and not nearly as pretty. “Teppei, this is Oikawa Tooru. Oikawa-san, my nephew Teppei studies at Chuo as well, I believe you two were in the same department, no?”

The nephew nodded, exchanging a brief handshake with the Chuo alumni. “Everyone in the Science Faculty rave about Oikawa-san and Kuroo-senpai all the time.”

Oikawa forced himself not to laugh at the vivid memories of Kuroo flirting with the old lady who looked after the chemistry equipment and supplies on campus, and the respective title of Reverse Cougar he had been given by the other professors and students.

(“Living up to that whole Cat Thing you’ve got going on, aren’t you Tetsu-chan?”)

There was a flash of something curious in Teppei’s eyes, enough to make Oikawa stop himself.

He hadn’t run into the kid during his days in university, and the vibe he was getting from him was not all too pleasant.

“Chairman Noma, sir, how are you this evening?”

_Oh thank God._

Oikawa remained stoic while he continued to stare at the Kodansha President’s relative, feeling the familiar presence of his neighbour arrive on the scene.

“(Surname)! There’s the star of the night! Did you need me, or Teppei? You both were quite engaged before Hisakawa dragged you off.” There was a grumble to his words, and the younger male waved his uncle’s comment off lazily.

Oikawa felt (Name) tense up, but when he looked to her, she appeared unbothered.

“Oh, no unfortunately, I just saw Oikawa-san standing here and thought it’s been a while since we caught up!” Teppei cocked his head to the side at her statement, watching as she patted the setter’s bicep once before retracting her hand quickly, as if her fingers touched exposed flames. “Hanamaki mentioned a few friends would be here but I hadn’t expected him, we have a lot to catch up on, no?”

She turned to him, the gleam in her eyes telling him to play along.

So he did.

“Hanamaki wanted to keep it a surprise.” He replied as casually as he could, pulling his own fake smile across his face, flipping his coiffed hair up a little more. “You know how he is sometimes.”

They both laughed, horrible fake, but Chairman Noma ate it up.

“I had no idea you and Hanamaki knew such an esteemed athlete, (Surname)-sensei,” the middle-aged man said with a warm smile, “but of course, we’ll leave you to catch up with your friend. Come Teppei, let’s not keep ourselves where we aren’t wanted. Oikawa-san, lovely meeting you. ” The coy chuckle that escaped the President’s lips was not lost on (Name), but she smiled and waved them farewell, gaze trained on them until they left.

When they were definitely out of range, the writer exhaled deeply, her entire body deflating from the stress it decided to realise.

“Nice save.” He commented. She rolled her eyes.

“I’m a Lord of Bullshit.” She fired back, clasping her hands behind her back.

And in the lull of conversation, both writer and setter turned to face each other fully, finally taking in each other’s appearance.

Oikawa hadn’t done much, merely fishing out an old dark navy suit he had worn to a relative’s wedding and calling it a day. The shawl lapel had rounded off his chest, while the single breasted fitted silhouette made him taller, boarding closer to Mattsun shoulder width. Underneath was a simple white dress shirt, paired with a black skinny tie and black dress pants, his oxfords a similar colour.

In comparison to the woman before him, he seemed severely under dressed.

Like most other attendants, (Name) had gone towards the more formal route of attire.

But unlike her guests, she was a little more daring.

 _Very_ daring.

It had been a different look to what he had known from the balcony, where the writer would wear loose-fitting clothing and hide in the shadows of the night.

Here, in the light of the banquet room, (Surname) (Name) had been glittering in a way that seemed almost impossible. Golden lace wrapped around her body, and her silhouette was enhanced from the shape of the dress and the high collar and sleeves.

And as his eyes took her in he saw it, the diamond window that ran from the top of the haltered collar to the midpoint of her bust.

Revealing was the adjective he had settled on.

 _Dangerous_ had been the first one that popped into his mind.

The hairs on the back of his neck stood up as his gaze landed on another man across the room – a journalist, perhaps – that had yet to have his eyes leave the writer’s form.

He frowned, lips together in a tight, thin line.

A waiter passed them by, and Oikawa placed his empty glass on to the tray and picked up a full one, manoeuvring so he stood in front of the writer and in between her and the stranger across the way.

(Name) hadn’t noticed, too busy replacing her own empty flute.

Nor had she noticed his own roaming gaze.

Oikawa chose to remain silent – there were other conversation starters that didn’t revolve around  “Nice boob window”.

(Name) spoke again first.

“You look dapper.” The writer’s lips twitched. “Blue’s a good colour for you.”

Oikawa tugged at his lapel, throwing on a triumphant grin her way. “I know.”

There was an awkward pause, as if both of them were waiting for the other to instigate.

_Compliment her, Tooru. Tell her she looks nice._

“Enjoying your party?”

 _Close enough_.

She scoffed, redirecting her attention to him. “Hardly.”

“You should though. Awards are always a good thing.”

“So you keep telling me…”

She rotated the neck of her champagne flute between her fingers.

“But if it’s any consolation to you, I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t at least _like_ what happened.”

He smirked, taking slow sips of the bubbly liquid as the writer continued to look past him in particular moments, nodding politely at the other people in the room.

“What’s the deal with the President’s nephew?”

“I didn’t even fucking know Noma was gonna be here let alone his Demon Nephew.”

“You got the bad voodoo from him too?”

She hummed around the lip of her glass. “Bad juju from that kid, you can’t trust a Science Major.”

Oikawa frowned.

“ _I_ _’m_ a Science Major.”

“You heard me the first time.”

He reached out and pushed her shoulder softly with a closed fist, watching her chuckle into the bubble of her drink.

They two fell quiet, slowly sipping on their drinks in the corner of the room, watching the world pass them by.

(Name) coughed. “I know I lied about knowing you were here, but what the fuck are you even doing here?” She gestured vaguely to the rest of the room around them. “This doesn’t look like a volleyball court.”

The brunet snorted, “That was the understatement of the century Writer-chan.” (Name) nodded, waving to someone who passed them by. “Mattsun and Makki-Makki dragged me along.”

“Just you?”

“They love torturing me.”

“Join the club.”

Her lips curled into a smirk around the lip of the glass, and Oikawa chuckled, feeling it rumble deep within his chest.

“Gotta admit, I was half expecting you to half stolen the show by now, maybe get someone to here to sponsor your autobiography.”

Oikawa frowned, immediately catching on to her implication.

She had heard about what happened at Jakarta.

From the news, no doubt, since even at the end of the Asian Games Bokuto had not talked to the writer – at least from what he garnered from the stern look of “Don’t Even Try” he had received from their bed-headed middle blocker.

A small part of him filled with pride; that someone had given a shit, even if it wasn’t the most conventional person to give a shit. But still, there was a hesitancy, an uncertainty of addressing it.

“If I had been the main reason we were able to win then maybe I would’ve… But I was on the court for one set at a time, and the boys were all playing longer and harder than I was.” He shrugged, glancing at her from the corner of his eye. “And besides, Tarou-chan was our true MVP after all.”

She opened her mouth to talk, then slowly shut it again, merely nodding in understanding.

She couldn’t press – not yet – not until there was a moment of opportunity that would prove to be a little more helpful in getting honest answers. Timing, that’s what was needed in this moment.

There was a moment of pause in the writer’s mind, punctuated with the click of her fingers on her free hand. “Got a question for you.”

“That doesn’t sound good.”

“Wanna get out of here?”

Oikawa paused his sarcastic reply and looked at her, really looked at her and just wondered. In the time they had known each other, he could at least predict the direction of thought since their similarities transcended even to their most brief thoughts. But this, this was different, as if there was a newfound distance between them that neither could easily explain.

“What’d you have in mind?”

“No idea.”

“Helpful.”

“I know,” she glanced around the room again, “but I’m not picky with what we do, if I’m honest. I just need to get out of this fucking hotel.”

“I heard the Cerulean Tower Bar is pretty good.”

She frowned.

“Expensive, trust me.”

“I _do_ owe you for dinner.”

“No matter how many favours you owe me, I’m not that mean to make you pay Cerulean prices.”

It was his turn to frown. The stifling atmosphere was getting to him, and if it was getting to him then it was _definitely_ getting to her. Fresh air, that’s what they both needed.

Fresh air and no prying eyes.

“What about walking, think you can walk a little?”

She glanced down to her heels. “I’ll live.”

“Saigoyama Park is, what, fifteen minutes from here?”

The woman quirked a brow at him. “It’s almost midnight.”

“And this party is dead.” Oikawa glanced around the room, looking at the mingling groups of colleagues and guests, and the nearly emptied trays of food. “You’ve probably been talking and eating and mingling since this thing started, and even if it’s all for you that doesn’t mean you owe them your presence. Live a little, Writer-chan.”

Her grip tightened around the neck of the flute, and she met his stoic expression, taking in his hopeful yet anticipatory expression.

“It’s either me, or the Chairman’s Shady Demon Nephew.”

The writer pursed her lips.

“Give me twenty minutes to wrap this shit-show up.” She downed the rest of her drink to punctuate her sentence. “You better be paying tonight.”

He place a hand on his chest, right on his sternum. “I’m a man of my word.”

 

* * *

 

 

They snuck out after (Name) gave her farewell speech to her guests. Most individuals decided to linger for tea and coffee, hoping for the possibility of talking to (Surname)-sensei one last time.

As she descended the small stage, she caught sight of Hisakawa talking to the Head Waiter. Her gaze continued past their huddled bodies before she confirmed there was no sign of Makki and Mattsun.

_Good._

_It’s time._

She backpedalled slowly, casually, grabbing her phone and purse from the back room before she headed towards the back entrances of the event room that lead down the hallway towards the bathrooms.

Rounding the corner, she double checked to see if there was any security around.

Empty.

Save for the setter who leant against the wall near the emergency exit, the same one that would lead them through the back areas of the hotel away from prying eyes.

“Let’s go, finger sandwiches are barely filling.”

Oikawa snorted. “That’s why you eat more than one serving Writer-chan.”

“Like I had the time to stuff my face like you, Limpy.” She retorted, adjusting the strap of her purse. “Back entrance is this way.”

“I’m little worried why you know that.”

“Research,” was her response, and Oikawa dismissed the comment as he pushed himself off the wall and followed the woman through their escape route.

(Name) heaved the door open, and Oikawa immediately reached over her head to help, before they both stumbled into the uneven asphalt of the back alley and bathed in the distant dingy lights of the main street.

The door swung shut with a slam behind them, and the (h/c)-haired woman dusted her hands on the hem of her skirt. “That was easier than I expected.”

He nodded, fixing his top so the collar rested over the neckline of his suit jacket. “So where to next then?”

She tutted, “I think there’s a 7/11 around here. Konbini run?”

He nodded, and both setter and writer moved off towards the front of the hotel.

The number of photographers that surrounded the entrance of the hotel had dwindled to two, a significant decrease when compared to what Oikawa and Mattsun dealt with when they needed to be escorted into the building by security.

They didn’t say much on their way to get their snacks, arms barely brushing against each other from the proximity with which they stood and walked.

The konbini had been deserted, save for the pimply teen that stood tiredly behind the counter, eyes glazed over from the fatigue of standing under the garish fluorescent lights for far too long.

(Name) grabbed one of the bright red baskets and swept a row of chip packets into the bottom. Oikawa raised an eyebrow at her. “What?”

“At least get one of every flavour.” He chastised, piling a few more packets on top. “And besides, onigiri is the way to go for midnight snacks.” He moved towards the refrigerated area and began grabbing a few triangular tuna rice balls into his large hand.

“It’s not my fault I’m a person of simple tastes.” She held her nose up high, before scrunching the bridge of it. “Get the roe ones.”

He scoffed. “Simple, huh?”

“We’re in Japan, roe isn’t that fancy.”

The setter raised one hand in defence, the other going to place a few more of the pre-packed rice balls into their basket. He made sure to grab her roe ones for good measure.

And then they both kept moving, pointing out other snacks to get before they stopped at the drinks.

Oikawa grabbed an ice tea, (Name) grabbed a bottle of water.

The male pried the handles from her grip and walked over to the register, immediately dropping it down with a “Good evening” to the cashier. He said nothing back. The items were checked out, placed into one bag in order to save time, and then released to the couple before they left as quickly as they came.

As soon as they left, (Name) had grabbed one of the onigiri. Oikawa laughed, and she tutted her tongue at him, watching as he also went to begin eating.

The distant light of the half-moon mingled with the surrounding neon signs and street lamps, illuminating their path forward as they walked together side by side, silent. The walk wasn’t long, but the pair did seem out of place in the late night atmosphere. Most people who lingered were dressed casually, and they certainly stood out like stains on a white shirt in the formal attire they had both worn.

Maybe they didn’t think this through.

“We can get to Saigoyama if we cut through here.” She jutted her chin out to the left, and without much fight Oikawa followed her slowly veering course into the dark.

They turned a street corner, ducking into the alley and followed the winding path to the outskirts of the park. Oikawa glanced around quickly and then down towards his companion before he shrugged of his jacket and draped it over her shoulders.

(Name) paused from unwrapping her onigiri, craning her head to the left to get a better look at him.

“Your dress.” He supplied, not bothering to direct his attention to the garment. (Name) bit the inside of her cheek, tapping her fingers against the rice ball.

She had forgotten about her boobs.

So with one free hand, she tugged the fabric around her torso, mumbling something close to a “Thanks”.

Oikawa ignored it.

Instead he reached into his plastic bag and unwrapped his own snack, listening as the atmosphere began polluted with the sounds of crinkled plastic and the muffled chewing of rice and meat.

By the time they had reached halfway, they had both gone through half of the rice balls. Oikawa dropped his rubbish into the bag again before he pulled out her drink, holding the bottle out to her. She grabbed it wordlessly.

They both continued in silence.

A nice silence.

A needed silence.

A wanted silence.

Saigoyama Park was beautiful in the day time, and especially when the cherry blossoms were in bloom. But the night brought its own perversion of it’s beauty; where the shadows seemed to stretch towards the horizon lines in either direction and the wind howled through the trees and whipped the stray leaves up and into the air. Sparse streetlights were scattered overhead, illuminating the silhouettes of nearby benches and picnic areas that lined the single path through the area. The half-moon’s light shimmered in the reflection of the large lake closer to the centre of park, water rippling from what life had come to break the surface and gaze at the stars, even if for a fraction of a second.

“There’s a good spot over there.” Oikawa pointed to a bench, half in the light of a streetlight. (Name) looked, then diverted her gaze elsewhere.

“That hill over there looks pretty promising.”

She pointed out to one of the steeper rises of land in the park, well out of the light and directly in the centre of the great expanse of stars.

He raised a brow at her. “Your dress.”

“I’ll live.”

“My suit.”

“I’ll get it dry cleaned for you.” And then she was gone, taking long, confident strides towards her destination while she simultaneously shrugged herself out of her heels.

The distance between them increased with her hurried steps.

10 metres.

20 metres

And then he was following after her. The bag knocked against his knees while he loosened his tie and rolled up his sleeves.

By the time he reached her, she was laying across his jacket, drink strewn to the side of her.

Oikawa dropped down next to her, sitting with his legs splayed out and his arms back, palms planted into the earthy hill. It was dry, no signs of maintenance anywhere. He threw the bag between their bodies, and (Name)’s hand slowly snaked into the open and retrieved one of the packets of chips. There was crinkle and a pop, followed by muffled crunching.

He exhaled deeply through his nose, letting his head loll back and watch the dark expanse of black above him.

“Were you really bothered by your lack of attention?”

He frowned. “Tonight?”

“In Jakarta?”

He poked his tongue into his cheek, feeling the slight stare of the woman on his side profile. “A little.” He leant back, resting on his forearms while he kept his chin parallel to the night sky. “But silent pride was good enough I guess. I was only on the court for about half an hour of total play time.”

She nodded along to his analysis. “You get used to being ignored. It’s a nice moment to think about your bullshit without other people’s bullshit fucking with you.” She supplied. “It’s a good change of pace, slowing down – something therapeutic about that shit.”

He hummed, head bobbing along in a nod at her words.

“And were you fine?”

“I don’t care whether you did well or not, honestly.”

“With tonight?”

She shrugged, rolling a little to face him. “Could do without it, but like I said, I’m not pissed at myself as much. It’s like you said: attention’s just a part of life, maybe I should start getting used to it.”

And then there was nothing again, nothing but the two of them gazing up at the great expanse of sky above them.

Something burbled in Oikawa’s throat, something bitter and acidic that almost made him lurch. He needed to let it out, needed to get rid of the feeling from his chest lest he leave it and let it eat him alive.

“Iwa-chan loves me.”

The writer paused mid bite, but still took to responding. “I know.”

The setter cocked his head to the side, waiting. He was sure his expression was one of disbelief, surprised at the reality that everyone did seem to know about Iwaizumi’s feelings bar him.

_Why did that hurt so much?_

“Iwaizumi-san asked about you one night a few months ago – it was pretty obvious.”

The brunet sighed and dropped on to his back, feeling the tension slowly escape his body and dig deep down into the earth. “I’m horrible.”

“Probably.” She crinkled the plastic and threw it away. “But if he didn’t want you to know then he didn’t want you to know. Wrong place, wrong time.”

Oikawa crumpled the plastic from his own snack before he folded his arms across his chest and turned ever so slightly to face her. “Is that how you feel about Tarou-chan’s confession?”

There was a moment of tension, and the writer forced herself to stop eating in order to swallow the words her companion had just said.

He must have heard from the horse’s mouth; unsurprising if she were honest. They had just spent the entire month of August together, and if they pair had been as close as Bo had always said they were, then there was no doubt in her mind that he would have told the setter.

She shrugged, the lace of her dress crinkled against the silk lining of Oikawa’s jacket.

“It’s just circumstance, I guess.”

He pouted slightly. “You guess?”

“I guess.”

Another minute passed.

“Is he doing okay?”

Oikawa shrugged, capping his bottle of iced tea. “As good as anybody who’s been rejected can be.” He watched the frown lines on her face deepen, catching the shadows casted from the distant moonlight. “He’ll live. You can’t die from heartbreak.”

And the air got cold, unnaturally cold for an autumnal breeze. It chilled (Name) straight to the bone.

She moved closer to him, barely feeling the warmth emanating from his body.

“Do you feel guilty?” He asked softly. “About rejecting him?”

“Do you?”

The setter exhaled a deep and shaky sigh.

That was enough of an answer for her, for him – for them both.

_Just a little._

_Maybe a lot on a bad day_.

“Love sucks.” She determined.

“It does.” He hummed.

“It’s not fair.”

“Definitely.”

“He deserves better.”

Oikawa paused in thought, before nodding wordlessly in agreement – Iwa-chan _did_ deserve better than him. And to a lesser extent, Tarou-chan to Writer-chan. And Writer-chan herself. And maybe him too.

So it was no surprise when he heard the voice in his mind whisper three words without much hesitancy.

 _Don’t we all_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh man oh my oh man is it hot in here or is it just me?  
> can u believe the INTIMACY??? the TENSION??? the DRESS??? the FLUFF??? ngl I'm pretty proud of myself with this next dosage of aftercare... and at how I finished 2 chapters a month when I have a million research essays to write across like four different subjects I wanna die ahahaHAHAHA-
> 
> but yet, character development. I luff it, if you can't already tell. even if it wasn't a very long wait, thank y'all for waiting and leaving such nice comments and shit its made life a lot better for me. ALSO: bless up to my darl [Arichuloco](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Arichuloco/profile) for straight up having my ass with these random updates not only across two different time zones, but during her finals, and for being amazing like omg. She's got a few fics over on her end BUT they did just start a couple of Haikyuu ones recently so go check them out, send her the love and support she deserves!
> 
>  
> 
> side note: I reckon Oiks is definitely a lace man.


	23. Distance Makes the Heart Grow Fonder

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fate was fucking with him.
> 
> It had to be.
> 
> //
> 
> He grinned. 
> 
> She wasn’t sure if it was at her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> info about a Q&A in endnote, but it's really not that important

_September, 2018_

Rome wasn’t built in a day.

Competitions weren’t won in one game.

And Oikawa Tooru’s comeback was not a predetermined outcome.

But there he was, competing at the FIVB Men’s Championship after only a few months of being benched.

The pre-game jitters were something he had not experienced in a while; partially due to circumstance, mainly because of his hold on international level competitions. But they returned, with a vengeance, and demanded to be felt.

It was if he were a rookie again, as if it were his first run at a tournament of such scale, as if he was going to make an ass out of himself.

It was stupid.

He blamed it on the home turf advantage of their opponents; Italy was one of the two hosts for the Championship that year (Bulgaria being the second host, but the possible trajectory of Ryuujin Nippon’s success meant they wouldn’t have to stray too far away) and they were a rather troublesome team to deal with right of the bat.

Especially when considering that Italy-Japan match was the first match of the _entire_ competition.

The brunet had broken away from the warm up sessions happening in their locker room, saying to the trainers that he had wanted to walk around a little and get a lay of the land. They believed the lie, and promptly let him on his way.

He stopped by a water fountain tucked away in a secluded hallway, away from scrambling bodies of event staff and journalists heading to their seats in the stands. One hand held the button down while the other hastily cupped and splashed water across his face and forehead, an abysmal attempt at satiating the nerves that slowly snaked up and down his bones and permeated in the centre of his chest.

Straightening out his arms, both hands clutched the lip of the basin as he slowed his breathing and mulled over the creeping fear. His fingernails scratched at the stainless steel. A tired breath passed through his parted lips, and then he wiped away the remaining droplets across his skin with the sleeve of his jacket.

 _Calm down_ , he thought, _you’re fine, you’re good, you can do this_.

“Oikawa-san.”

The brunet froze in place and turned, slowly, pivoting on the balls of his feet to face-

“Tobio-chan.”

Oikawa hadn’t actively been avoiding his junior, but circumstance wouldn’t allow him the time to gloat and rub in his triumphant return to the black-haired boy’s face.

And for Tobio to actively come towards him in confrontation was something he had not anticipated, especially not a few minutes before the opening match of the competition. He stood there unmoving, unshaken, in his Ryuujin Nippon tracksuit, the jacket unzipped the entire way to reveal his red and black jersey, a large 24 on the front under the insignias of the official uniform.

Something sunk in his stomach, an eerie sense of déjà vu washing over his body.

The news had come the day after (Name)’s gathering at the Cerulean, a mere few hours after he and the writer had left Saigoyama park.

Kageyama Tobio was removed from his position as starting setter now that Oikawa had returned to the team as a member. The second year Chuo student would take the setter’s place as a pinch server, remaining as a core member to the line-up, even if it were a substantially smaller role.

Coach Nagakaichi texted him the update twenty minutes after he had seen the official announcement, and the returning setter had to feign his surprise at the man’s words.

He was ecstatic that all his hard work had paid off, and now there was only the hurdle of the actual competition.

He narrowed his eyes at the young adult standing in front of him.

Make that _two_ hurdles.

“What is it?” He asked, folding his arms across his torso while he waited for the younger to speak. Kageyama stepped forward slightly, barely moving into range.

“I may have only been a starter for one official competition,” he began, the hands at his sides balling into fists, “but I didn’t deserve that position. That was yours, and even though I took it I didn’t think it was right.”

Oikawa forced himself not to make a snappy remark.

Kageyama continued.

“After you graduated there wasn’t much challenge back home; the teams were strong as one, but there wasn’t a setter who could match me. And then nationals went by, and then was the Under 19s tournament. And after all those challenges, I thought that I was final standing on your level. I thought that we were equals on the court, that I could beat you fair and square. But now I realise I’m not. I wouldn’t be able to do what you did in Jakarta, and I don’t think I would be strong enough to come back to volleyball with the same amount of ease.

“And so I wanted to make things clear with you Oikawa-san. I don’t intend on backing down so easily. We’re still teammates, but you will always be my senior and rival. One day we are going to stand on the court together – same side or not – as equals, and I will surpass you fair and square. I promise that.”

There was  a moment of frustration that bubbled in him, a brief second of anger that wanted to yell at the younger male – _You don’t have to keep trying to beat me, you already have, why the fuck are you so obsessed with surpassing someone whose potential is nil_ – but the desire faded as quickly as it surfaced as he finally looks into the blue eyes of his kouhai.

And he saw it.

A familiar flicker of pride, of determination, and then a soft hue of sadness and defeat and _never again_ in what he had always considered to be the cold irises of his junior.

In the silence, he heard her voice.

_‘We all work for the things we reap – some a little harder than others, but that’s not necessarily a bad thing.’_

For a moment, the world seemed to shift, and Oikawa thought he saw the same (h/c) hair he had come to know flutter in front of his gaze, paired with a tired smile quirked on to a pair of lips.

But the visage faded, and it was just him and Tobio.

The frustration he felt was still there, Oikawa wasn’t sure if it were ever going to fade if he were honest, but the understanding that came with it was new – was foreign and strange and unwarranted in more ways than one.

Because (Surname) (Name) was far too much like Kageyama Tobio when it came to circumstance and ability, but the hand of fate that dealt the cards of her existence did not smile such as kindly.

It had blessed him – and Tobio-chan – with a rival worthy of versing, worth challenging, worth pushing themselves past the limit.

And (Name) did not.

Something in him wondered whether that’s what she had really meant all those months ago. Yes, that had been his first assumption, but back then there was still the confusing fog that clouded what was their friendship – _acquaintanceship_.

Now there was a bit of clarity in her words. ‘You don’t need to be worried,’ he heard her say, ‘obviously you’re one of the best already – and you should be flattered that someone actually looks up to you and actively wants to be as good as you are.’

A compliment – words of reassurance and confirmation that finally made sense in his mind. She believed in him, or at the very least had faith in his capabilities after only hearing meagre whispers from people close to him. And from the underlying bite of her words, it seemed like he had taken the relationship with Tobio-chan for granted.

He straightened his back out, lower back no longer leaning on the steel basin as he stood at his full height.

“You better make it fast then,” Oikawa responded, unfolding his arms and letting them hang limply at his sides. “After this Olympic season passes you’ll be eligible for joining the V League – you can show me how ready you are then.”

Kageyama stood up straighter, still a few centimetres shorter than his senpai, but his gaze did not waver. He remained silent, only nodding in confirmation at his comment. Oikawa narrowed his eyes, still watching and waiting to see if there was any other change in the young man’s expression.

Nothing.

Nothing but the lingering familiarity of the writer next door.

So he took to walking away, not wanting to waste any more time lingering in the hall when the opening match would start in any minute.

The ravenet stepped aside, his gaze following the brunet as he passed him by with a seemingly confident stride. The only sounds that permeated around them were the squeaks of the starting setter’s shoes. Oikawa paused in the middle of the hallway.

“And make sure you have Chibi-chan with you.” He cast a glance over his shoulder. “It’s only fair you’re equipped with your strongest weapon when you face me.”

 

* * *

 

Fate was fucking with him.

It had to be.

There was a small part of him that hoped this wasn’t real, but there was his name written in next to the spiker in the room assignments for the rest of the foreseeable future.

Of course, he just had to be sharing a room with Bokuto Koutarou.

After winning the opening match 2-3, both teams were travelling together to the city of Florence for the rest of the first round. He had been rooming with Ushijima for the initial few days, and he hadn’t had word that would change from anyone of the support staff. So perhaps the move from Rome was what warranted the change; maybe the hotel rooms had been organised differently, or there were requests from his teammates about preferences.

Maybe.

Oikawa still called bullshit.

The first few days of their Florence leg had been awkward to say at the least.

While yes, tension between them had died down significantly, Oikawa still had this underlying feeling that things weren’t okay – that they would never go back to being as they were before Writer-chan had stumbled into their lives.

And neither of them was going to admit it.

But they had successfully stayed out of each other’s ways before and after their matches, retreating to different areas of the hotel in order to avoid each other;  Bokuto going off with Kuroo to who knew where and Oikawa with-

“Oikawa.”

“Ushiwaka-chan.”

Ushijima Wakatoshi was still one of the more intolerable people in his life, but there wasn’t anyone else on the team that he could be around without getting a (large) headache. It was a turn of events he had never expected – a lot of those were happening these days – but despite the curious appearance, it served as enough of a distraction from the awkwardness of Oikawa’s Unforeseen Issues.

The Shiratorizawa alumni didn’t spare the setter a glance, choosing to watch the elevator wall with minimal interest. “You and Bokuto are still on bad terms?”

Oikawa sighed and lifted one hand to pinch the bridge of his nose. “Dear God, does everyone know about this?”

“It’s obvious when you spend your free time with me over your fellow Chuo batch-mates.” He deadpanned, standing still as the elevator slowed to a halt. “The others want answers.”

“And you?”

“I do not care.” Ushijima craned his head down slightly to look at the brunet. “I just want to remind you to put it aside for the rest of the tournament. You were holding back on Bokuto’s tosses in the last match.” The doors slid open, and the ace stalked out of the opening and into the hallway on their floor.

Oikawa faltered in disbelief before he hurried after, shoulders being jammed as the doors tried to close on him.

“I was not holding back!” He argued, annoyance slowly surging through his veins. Ushijima didn’t answer, fumbling in his pockets for his hotel room key. “I haven’t let our-” _dispute, argument, problem_ “-circumstances impact out game!”

“Perhaps,” Ushijima’s olive green eyes scanned the setter’s body once over, “but you weren’t utilising the left as well as you should have been, and success isn’t satisfactory unless we fight with all that we have. A subconscious decision, maybe, but it will become more problematic if it continues any further.” The spiker paused in front of his hotel room and swiped his key card in the lock. He pushed the door open, pausing at the threshold for a moment. “Your pride is not worth it, but it would be best if you were to swallow it for the time being.”

And then the door shut, separating the old rivals from each other, and leaving Oikawa with a vignette of red lining his vision.

 

* * *

 

The remainder of the first round had gone by like a breeze, despite having strong competitors right off the bat. But there was something within Bokuto that knew the battle wasn’t over. Not yet.

Not while there were still three more rounds to go through, and the awkwardness of rooming and competing alongside Oikawa once more.

He wasn’t sure how the room assignments were organised for the team, but he was sure that whoever – or whatever – wrote them up had not had Bokuto’s wellbeing in their mind.

There were moments where their paths would cross, where something inside of him threatened to snap at his friend because the unsolved tension was getting the best of him, where he felt his heart throb angrily at him.

And then there the moments where the pain and anger subsided.

Those were the rare moments of peace in his day, where chance and fate presented him with a brief glimpse at (Name) (Surname)’s life.

His most recent look in through the window came was the night before as he left the hotel’s gym. With a towel draped over his damp hair and down the front of his shoulders, he had turned to leave when one of the TV screens mounted on the wall opposite the treadmills caught his attention.

With what poor and broken Italian he had come to armed with, Bokuto understood only a few parts of the by-text on the screen; (1) (Name) (Surname), (2) the name of ‘A Moth to Flame’, (3) next year, and (4) festival.

But he didn’t care about that, not when the most ethereal image of the woman he loved had flashed on to the screen.

Like the other recent photos he had seen of (Name), she was smiling. The photos being displayed were from a party earlier that month; a highly publicised event back in Japan that made him want to wait outside her apartment for her to come home so he could bask in her success, like he used to do before.

It tugged at his heart.

He hadn’t paid attention to anything that happened the following day.

And apparently, it was very noticeable.

A hand wrapped itself around his shoulder, forcing him to look at the new presence.

“You good?”

Kuroo hadn’t returned the spiker’s fleeting glance. Bokuto nodded.

“Great.”

“And you’ll be alright with sharing a room in Bologna with Oikawa?”

Bokuto shrugged. “I’ll live.”

The middle blocker pulled his lips together tightly. That was a lie – Bo was getting worse at lying these days. His performance in competition had been fine, had almost separated itself entirely from the moods he displayed when he was off the court. It was strange; Kuroo and Akaashi had anticipated progress, but there was far too much stagnation in his circumstances.

 _Stroke his ego,_ he thought, _that always worked with Bokuto._

“I’m proud of you, y’know?” Kuroo chimed, grip tightening ever so slightly. “I reckon you’ll be the new ace of the starting line up after the competition’s over.”

The monochrome-haired male gave him a tight lipped smile, murmuring what could only be deciphered as a sheepish “Thanks” in response.

Because while there was truth in his best friend’s words, it was not the outcome he wanted. In the past, maybe.

These days he just wanted the reclusive writer who stole his heart.

 

* * *

 

It seemed to be a recurring pattern for Oikawa to become invested in Bokuto Koutarou. If someone had told him of his newfound circumstances a year ago he would have laughed; there were more important things to than busy himself with the life of his teammate to this degree.

That was Tetsu-chan’s job as far as he was concerned.

But now?

Now he didn’t care how suspicious he looked with his back pressed up against their hotel room wall while he craned his head towards the balcony.

They arrived in Bologna three days before the start of the second round, two days before Bokuto’s birthday. Celebrations were in order, at least that’s what most of the team had argued, especially when they were one of the only teams who had come off back-to-back competitions within two months.

Perhaps it had been their faults – himself and the rest of the team – for not monitoring the spiker a little better. “It’s his birthday!” Nishinoya was the loudest within the entire team. “He deserves to relax after he carried us through the second week!”

And no one had seen the possibility of  anything going wrong, not even Kuroo had voiced his concern.

Which was annoying – and disappointing – considering the circumstances Oikawa now found himself in.

Bokuto Koutarou, breaking down into the receiver of his phone amidst the surprisingly frigid Mediterranean air.

He wasn’t sure how long Bokuto had been on the phone for, considering the fact that the former had left the hotel bar earlier despite being the man of the hour, but it was clear to Oikawa that he would not be ending the call any time soon.

“I miss you (Name)… So much.”

Bokuto hiccupped, words drawling and slurring thanks to the alcohol in his system. Oikawa inched forward.

“I want you to be mine… Is that selfish of me? Akaashi said it is; he said if I want you to be happy I should let you go bu-but I can’t. I want to be yours… I want to tell people I’m taken by someone so out of my league and that she doesn’t care about that because she loves me anyway… Fuck I’m so selfish.”

The setter sighed, lolling the neck so that the crown of his head rested flat against the cold plaster of the wall. A part of him felt bad for the guy, and that same part sunk deep into his diaphragm with what could only be described as guilt.

“I read your – uh – I read it again… It’s still beautiful; then again I think _anything_ you say is really just… Beautiful. _You’re_ beautiful.” He sniffed.

The setter’s fingers curled around the lip of the wall. _It_ ? Which _It_ of Writer-chan’s? How many books had she released in her career? How much time did Tarou-chan have in order to read them? Why did practically _everyone_ he know read her _goddamn books_?

“Is it wrong if when I read it I still think it’s about me? I know it’s not but… But maybe it is and I don’t want to let that chance go, y’know?” Bokuto sighed out a shaky breath. “Like maybe, I dunno, if I read between the lines then I’ll see it’s about me. You taught me to do that… Y’know, how to pick up on the hidden meanings and shit… But that’s just because you’re so secretive, I guess.”

There was silence, and Oikawa pinched his lips together as he slowly leant over on to his left side in order to look out into the open door-

“What did I do…? Was it me? What did I do to hurt you, I just can’t understand-”

The spiker was still dressed in the clothes he had worn to the bar, albeit more dishevelled that the cause of mere alcohol. His hair was ruffled and stuck out in different directions, and he was almost hunched over the glass railings that framed the boundaries of the area. The hand that wasn’t wrapped around his phone held the lip of the barrier, and his arm shook from the force with which he held the white frame.

The guilt increased in size and weighed him down into the carpet of the room.

“God I’m so drunk I just – I just want _you_ . It’s always going to be you and – _fuck_ \- ”

Oikawa watched the phone clatter to the ground. The monochrome-haired male stared at his empty hand and then at the uncracked phone – lucky bastard – on the tile of the balcony.

As he ducked down to retrieve it, he stumbled, and Oikawa instinctively shot out to catch him, right as the younger male stumbled from his lack of balance. Oikawa cradled him in his arms, legs buckling under the sudden weight and forcing them both to the floor, the phone caught between their tangled legs and the tile.

Oikawa’s hands rested on Bokuto’s shoulder, and he felt them shake with the uneven breathing of the spiker’s sobs.                      

“You need to sleep Tarou-chan-”

“I love her so much Tooru…” Bokuto’s fist tangled itself tighter into the setter’s shirt. “Why can’t she love me back?” He tugged, heaving another shaky breath of air into his lungs. “Why does she have to _love you_?”

The world seemed to stop, and Oikawa felt his eyes bulge out of his head.

What.

What.

_What._

**_What._ **

**_What._ **

**_WHAT_ ** -

“No she-”

“She does!” Bokuto pulled a little harder. “And I keep telling myself it’s not true but it _is_!”

The scoff escaped him before he can stop himself, shaking his head fervently because-

“What is it with everyone and throwing around this _love_ bullshit these days?” He grumbled, more to himself than to Bokuto. The latter was too out of it to reply, and it left Oikawa a moment to think.

Because Writer-chan didn’t love him.

No way.

And he didn’t love her.

Definitely not.

So he wasn’t sure how these assumptions kept being made; first Iwa-chan and now Tarou-chan.

“It’s not true,” he said, both to himself and to the spiker, his eyebrows furrowing together and deep creases forming on his forehead. “You’re delusional and drunk, Tarou-chan.”

“She loves you…” The spiker breathed out, and despite how airy the tone was there was an air of certainty to his words. “She loves you and your stupid face and your stupide talent and your stupid life and you’re gonna hurt her cause you’re _stupid-_ ”

The hand that curled itself in his shirt had started to stretch the fabric to its extremes, and Oikawa felt himself get pulled in closer and closer to Bokuto’s face. The smell of beer was even more prominent at this proximity.

“I want her to need me…To care…” Bo looked up. “Is that too much to ask?”

 _Yes, probably_.

Oikawa’s left hand moved to pat Bokuto on his upper back, unable to respond with his true thoughts. Silence, he determined, was the best option for the both of them. Dissociation was Oikawa’s secondary action, and the setter slowly tuned out the sobs that continued to wreck his friend’s body. He could only feel the slight convulsion of the thicker chest against his own.

Bo fell asleep a few minutes later, breath no longer laboured or painful, and a somewhat peaceful expression adorning his sharp features.

Despite his relaxed muscles, the spiker’s grip was still taught in the fabric.

Cracking his neck, Oikawa sighed and slumped a little bit closer into the ground.

Oikawa looked back to the phone that still lay on the ground. On the screen was the call-time, ticking slowly, signalling that the call was still connected. He sighed and manoeuvred his body around so he could reach it with his right hand. Wrapping his digits around the rectangular shape, he adjusted the device and hung up the call before opening up a new text message to the writer.

**(Surname) (Name)**

_This is Limpy. Ignore Taro-chan’s voice mail  (01:12am)_

_It’s just him yelling about how mean Tetsu-chan is  (01:12am)_

The bubble appeared on her side of the screen.

_I see.  (01:12am)_

_Thanks for the heads up I guess.  (01:13am)_

The conversation stagnated, and Oikawa hesitated.

Should he keep talking to her?

Should he just let her go?

_Why did Tarou-chan think she loved him?_

**_Why the hell was he still thinking about it?_ **

A soft chime echoed through the air, catching Oikawa’s attention once more.

_No game today? (01:14am)_

His thumb moved across the screen’s keyboard before he had a chance to stop himself.

_the team decided to celebrate for Tarou-chan’s birthday.  (01:14am)_

_It’s a day early isn’t it?  (01:14am)_

_We had a few free days in Bologna, and a couple of the guys guilted Coach.  (01:15am)_

_Fancy (01:15am)_

_When’s the next game?  (01:16am)_

_21_ _st_ _. celebrations needed to be early so we wouldn’t be too hungover  (01:16am)_

_Sounds fun.  (01:16am)_

_Not when you have to pay and conversion rates suck.  (01:17am)_

_Do you need money?  (01:17am)_

_Are you offering to be my Sugar Daddy?  (01:17am)_

_I was just gonna say sell your body.  (01:18am)_

_When in Rome, do as the Romans do.  (01:18am)_

He snorted. Bokuto shifted ever so slightly, as if responding to the sudden movements caused by Oikawa’s silent laughter.

_Are you sure Bo’s okay?  (01:19am)_

He frowned at her question, partially unsure with how to respond, mainly due to the discomfort that continued to develop in his stomach.

_He’s okay.  (01:19am)_

_Like I said – just annoyed at Tetsu-chan.  (01:19am)_

_Okay.  (01:21am)_

_I gotta run, Makki’s waiting for me in the lobby.  (01:21am)_

_Good luck for the 21st. And tell him I said happy birthday. (01:21am)_

Oikawa faltered.

Only for a second.

_I will. See you in a few weeks. (01:22am)_

There was a moment of nothing.

_See you then.  (01:22am)_

And then the conversation went dead, and the late night air had engulfed the two bodies once more.

Hesitation clouded his vision, but there was a fraction of clarity. Oikawa deleted the messages from the history and proceeded to lock the device.

He didn’t want to risk Bokuto knowing.

It was better this way.

The less he thought about (Name)’s feelings the better.

The two men sat there sprawled across the floor, breathing in uneven rhythms to each other. One, lost to the world in a stupor infused by repressed emotion and alcohol, the other taken by his confusion and thoughts caused by the life he was currently living.

What even _was_ his life these days?

Since when had drama been an active part of his existence; he had only ever wanted a simple life of volleyball and his small group of friends. Anything outside that threatened his plans. The more rational part of his brain had argued that he was being stupid, but recent events and months had proven his irrationality to be completely justified.

Which was terrifying.

Because what else was he completely wrong about?

A snore escaped Bokuto’s lips, and the guilt pushed itself further and further into his gut.                                                           

The thoughts echoed in his head.

“She does care about you…” He exhaled softly, laying his right hand on top of the salt-and-peppered mop of hair. “She feels guilty about rejecting you.” He looked towards the phone again. “But she doesn’t love you – or me – and it’s because she’s trying to get her own shit together before she can fuck things up with you anymore.”

No response.

Oikawa sighed in defeat, craning his head up to look at the distant, twinkling constellations.

God, he wasn’t ready for the next round.

 

* * *

 

The end of the month came faster than she had anticipated, and despite its sudden arrival September’s end had not brought (Name) anything of worth.

Perhaps, she wondered, if there was a chance her life was finally slowing down.

She scoffed, tucking her feet beneath her butt as the mesh of her balcony chair dipped. Impossible.

(Name) took a slow gulp of her Whiskey Highball, watching the distant lights from other buildings flicker on and off and on and off in the elongated hours of the night. From what she could see, her lights were the only ones on within her building.

She wondered if she would always have an irregular sleep schedule, regardless of whether or not her life calmed down in all the ways she had always wished it would.

A light flashed next to her, and her head whipped to her right as she watched an approaching shadow get closer and closer. The door opened.

“Welcome back.” She hummed, turning her head back to the front.

Oikawa dropped his carry-on bag next to the chair and flopped into his familiar seat, a soft exhale escaping his lips. “I slept the entire plane ride home and I’m still tired.”

“Time is a construct and yet it still fucks us over.”

The brunet exhaled through his nose, left hand limply stretching over the gaps between the balconies. (Name) caught on and passed one of her unopened Highball cans into his grasp. He took it, cracked the tab open and took a long, long gulp.

“How’d it go?”

“Bronze medal.”

“That’s good right?”

He shrugged, “It’s a better performance compared to our other FIVB appearances… and the last World Championship we qualified for in 2010.”

“Again, I’m gonna pretend that I understood that as a whole sentence and not individual words.”

He grinned.

She wasn’t sure if it was at her.

“And how was your September? Busy?” He inquired, leaning to his left and resting his cheek on the barrier.

“Quiet.” She folded her arms across her chest. “Very quiet.”

“Aw Writer-chan, did you miss our talks that much?”

“The absence of your ape face was a blow to my self-esteem, yes.”

“I bet my bronze and gold medals must be doing your head in as well, huh?”

She shrugged, “I bet they’re plated.”

Oikawa spluttered obnoxiously, exaggerating the reaction and forcing her to crack a genuine smile at his actions.

The banter continued back and forth, transpiring late into the night.

It was the longest they had spoken – about everything and nothing. Both of them had gotten up multiple times for more drinks, but despite the interruptions there wasn’t a break in their conversation.

It felt peculiar, and left her perplexed.

But it was nice.

Different.

But nice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so, ngl, I finished writing this instead of an essay. and frankly no ragrets 
> 
> We haven't had an Oikawa-centric chapter in a while.  
> We also haven't had an angsty one either soooo here you go~~~  
> lowkey I am a bad person because who??? treats??? their favs??? like this???
> 
> also, I was thinking of doing a Q&;A at the end of the fic, just in case there were any lingering questions about the plot or something... or if you wanted to talk about other stuff, y'know, cause I'm really invested in what you all had to say about this train wreck. I'd have to work out the kinks, but would you all want to do that? it's really up to you. let me know what you think - about the Q&A and the chapter - and thank you sooo much for 3400+ reads and almost 200+ kudos I'm shook holy shitdfijssiejajf


	24. Awareness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Do you want that?”
> 
> “Want what?”
> 
> “People to give a fuck.”

_ October, 2018  _

“I’m gonna be honest, Mattsun. I don’t know why you’re here.”

“I enjoy the perks of having a famous friend; free food, security guards, private waiting rooms.” The curly-haired male beamed at her while he fiddled with the collar of her top. “Plus, it’s my day off and you’ve stolen Hiro from me for the second weekend in a row so I’m crashing your date.”

“First, we’re working-”

“Work date-”

“Second, he bats for the other team-”

“Experiment date-”

“Third, he is _literally_ already your-”

“Not my boyfriend.”

The writer rolled her eyes and swatted his hands off of her shoulders, ignoring the impish, teasing grin that spread across her friend’s face.

“And besides, you are free to take Makki from me whenever you want. _He’s_ not the one who has to give the seminar.”

“ _He_ isn’t a highly sought after novelist.”

“Neither am I.”

“(Name).”

“Issei.”

He reached up with his right hand and squished her cheeks together, forcing her lips to pucker into an exaggerated pout. “You’re being stupid and I’m gonna squish it out of you.”

“How kind.” She retorted, and the blocker shook her head left and right, slowly increasing the pressure applied on to his fingertips. The writer furrowed her eyebrows together in understanding. “So thish ish why you decided to come today.”

“You go lowkey AWOL for a month, and come back in time for this festival with something as lacklustre as ‘Understanding Basics’.” Mattsun released her face, poking her in the forehead with his index and middle fingers before she stepped out of arms-length. “I have every right to be the Concerned Friend.”

Like the Tokyo International Literary Festival at the beginning of the year, the Japan Writer’s Conference had been an event (Name) frequented even before gaining literary acclaim, and it was only until very recently that her appearances were requested.

That year, Makki had scheduled her appearance more than five months in advanced, and it wasn’t until September that the writer had even begun thinking about her panel at all. A part of her wanted to wing it, to talk about anything that came to her mind in the moment since she was sure some people would exaggerate whatever she said anyway, but another part of her mind knew better.

She needed a topic.

And so she decided on the most boring one of all – composition; of form, of theme, of style.

The Basics™.

Truly, a snooze-fest.

“S’not that weird.” She argued, teetering closer to the snack table as opposed to the couch, just in case he decided to fish-face her once more.

“Kind of is.” He retorted, “Especially since you’ve been weird about style and shit all year.”

Mattsun had a point, one that the writer could not deny. Despite how fitting her choice in topics was examining the chain of events that followed the lifespan of her career, it was curious considering how out of character the decisions that lead to those events had been.

“You wanna talk about it?”

“About what?”

“Life.”

“Mattsun, I literally have to go out and speak in, like, fifteen minutes. Are you really gonna do this to me, right now?”

“No better time than the present, hot stuff.”

“There are literally so many other times that are better – for example, never.”

He reached out to squish her cheeks again. She swatted his hand away with a slap, leaving a faint red mark against the lightly tanned skin. The black-haired man raised his hands in defeat.

“We don’t have to talk then,” he began, “you can stand there silently while I stare at you in complete disappointment.”

As the words left his lips his demeanour began to change, his eyes that were once filled with mirth were quick to dull in the light, and the tight line his lips were pulled into were a clear sign of displeasure. The cherry on top was the prompt folding of his arms across his chest, and the slight tilt of his head.

(Name) frowned. “Y’know it’s gonna take a lot more than that to make me feel guilt, kid.” She said, eyeing him down with her own stern glare.

He said nothing, and remained still like a car in peak hour traffic – the potential of movement existed, but the issue came from external factors; namely her.

The silence manifested around them further and further, and it bled into her breathing and slowly choked out the fresh air that filled her lungs. And then she sighed, letting her shoulders slump from their rigid right-angles and relented. (Name) didn’t bother to look at the triumph that adorned her friend’s face.

“I haven’t written anything since we published ‘Observations’.” She increased the distance a little more, letting the small of her waist rest flush against the edge of the snack table.

“And that’s a bad thing?”

“Maybe.”

“You’re weirded out by that?”

“Essentially.”

“Because you’re used to writing non-stop?"

“Because I’m confused as to how I’ve slowed down creatively and sped up professionally.” An exasperated sigh passed through her lips. “And like, there’s this weird part of me that wants to keep going and I don’t _trust it_ because I don’t know what’s down that way. And it’s the same part that doesn’t want to – or at least _can’t_ – write about _me_ anymore. Like, this last one was about-”

“Oikawa?”

“What?”

“Number 16?”

“Who even-”

“The complexities of your out-of-left-field love life-”

“ _About you_!” She groaned. “It was about you and me and Makki and everyone else who has waved their dumb faces into my life!”

For the second time that day, all humour drained from Mattsun’s face, immediately being replaced with a look of confusion.

“I wrote this for me, sure, but most of it is about other people – _for_ other people… And Doctor Nakamura was like, ‘Hey, what if you started writing about everything else in your life because it seems to work as quality inspiration for you!’ And at first it wasn’t a bad idea but it just got me thinking…”

(Named) folded her arms across her chest, averting her gaze aware from her friend.

“What if I’ve got nothing interesting to say, y’know? Like what if I have to keep looking to everyone else for inspiration? That means dealing with people and I just, can’t, with people, y’know? Like – the whole point of my career, of my love of this stupid field of expertise is because I could talk through _my_ shit, _my_ drama, even if people didn’t understand it. It’s what made me, _me_. But now, now I’ve got nothing. If I don’t have anything left to write about, then what am I meant to do?”

The sound of blood rushed up through her veins and pounded against her temples as the words got caught in her throat, and strained themselves against the sides.

“If I’m not (Name) (Surname) – the Writer – then who the fuck am I meant to be?”

Mattsun frowned and stepped closer to her.

“You’d be (Name) – the Person.”

“I don’t even know who that is.”

“You’d figure it out.”

“And no-one’s ever given a fuck about (Name).”

“Do you want that?”

“Want what?”

“People to give a fuck.”

The woman thought for a second before her shoulders rose up into a shrug. “I really don’t know…”

The man sighed and mirrored her stance, arms crossed and shoulders laxed, waiting for her to look back up at him. He opened his mouth to answer, only to be interrupted by a series of knocks and the slight creaking of the doorway. There stood one of the event coordinators; a woman no older than the either of them with light copper bangs that framed her round face.

“Sorry to interrupt, (Surname)-sensei, but your seminar starts in five minutes.”

(Name) nodded, “I’ll be on my way then. Thank you for the reminder.”

The coordinator smiled back before shutting the door. There was a half beat of silence before the (h/c)-haired woman pushed herself off of the snack table and stalked towards the exit, not bothering to address the male standing in front of her. Mattsun swore he felt a hot wave of embarrassment wash over him as she passed.

He rolled his eyes and reached out, catching her left elbow with his right hand. She paused mid-step, but he didn’t bother to try and turn her back around.

“Maybe _you_ should start caring about Plain Ol’ (Name) first; cause then you’ll realise how easy it is to separate her from the writer.” Her elbow slipped through his slowly relaxing grip. “The sooner you do, the faster you’ll be less afraid of who you are, and the more accepting of who you can be.”

(Name) didn’t bother to look back at him when she left the room.

 

* * *

 

Her panel was organised to take place in the middle of the week; a prime position that enabled her to feed off of the energy of the opening days of the Conference, as well as generate her own lingering hype for the final days.

(Name) was certain she would never get used to the feeling of dozens of eyes trained on her every move, nor the many sets of ears that were to absorb whatever she said and regurgitate it in one way or another. Even with her experiences as a person of the audience – and the other stints she had with public speaking – she would never, ever be _fully_ prepared for the mental taxation that was a Public Appearance.

Despite her unease at the situation, it started easy, with versions of questions she had already answered in passing panels and interviews and signings. But then the tempo changed, as if the people watching her had grown tired of the stagnant air and answers that surrounded her. Much to her dismay, the questions shifted from the novels into anthology territory – the uncharted land mass that she wanted to (desperately) avoid for as long as she could.

“Was there any strategy to the way you’ve organised the poems?” “What was the story behind the work ‘We’?” “Why is there no strict structure to any of the poems?”

She answered each one, her motivation slowly deflating. It did not deter the audience, who continued to listen, slightly entranced by the bare answers she was supplying.

And then it came, the dreaded question she had not realised she hated until she heard it echo in the air of the conference room.

“Why the change?” A woman asked. “You’ve become known for your short stories and novels, so why bother venturing into new territory?”

A part of her laughed, bitterly, while the other exhaled a tired breath from her strained lungs. The writer glanced around the entire room, and her gaze met the familiar black irises of Mattsun and Makki who were tucked away together in the very back of the room.

“I don’t know.” She admitted forlornly. “I really don’t know. I could sit here and lie to you with an on-the-spot made up answer, but I won’t. I don’t know why I decided poetry was the way to go for this piece. I know why I wrote about the things I did, but my own choice in form confuses me. Part of it is feeling, the other part doesn’t make sense. And when it comes to writing, I have never been one to doubt choices my mind thinks is good.

“This year has been,” she frowned, “confusing – frustrating, even. Life and my mind have not been kind, and I realised that the agency I have is not actually a lot. Most works in the anthology are introspective because of it, but the ones that aren’t are my attempt to understand the people and parts of my life I still don’t have a hold on. And I hope that the exploration of them will bring clarity to the uglier parts of my existence.”

A hand lifted itself in the air, followed by a deep baritone voice.

“So then do you think an artist needs to change their style in order to get better?”

(Name) furrowed her brows together.

“I think people need change – regardless of what they do – to get better.” She affirmed. “When I started I wanted happiness. These days I wanted to be content. I’m sure they are two different things; the former is fleeting, and the latter is stable. And you can only have stability when you accept the idea that things must change. I admit, I’m terrified of that, but I’ve got to address this fear at some point. And the change in style does that. Maybe.”

(Name) pulled her lips into a smile – one that bordered closer to a grimace than anything else.

“Which, to elaborate on an earlier answer, is where the story of ‘We’ – and a few other poems in the anthology – comes from. They mark the change that needed to happen and, ultimately, were the beginning of this whole process.”

There was a brief murmur that washed through the crowd, filling vacant places in the room while the writer watched her words dissipate into the air.

**_Transparency is the second step to stop being an ass._ **

“For a work like ‘Dragon Tears’, that’s a different story.”

Pages filled over, created a cacophony of shifting fibre against hardwood surfaces, and the restarting of recorders and microphones and cameras filled her vision.

She sighed deeply.

She would be fine.

Most things were in time.

 

* * *

 

(Name) had gotten too caught up in the festivities of fan-signings to have noticed the foreboding presence that slowly crept towards her when she tried to return to the waiting room. And it wasn’t until she caught the tip of a shadow on the ground that she knew she had been followed.

She turned around slowly, mid-step as she readied herself for the new-found presence of-

“(Name)-chan, or do you prefer (Surname)-sensei these days? You know how pedantic formalities are these days!”

Her lips were thin, pulled together like a taut bow-strong.

Chairman Honda. Honda Natsuki’s father.

The man in question was stocky for someone of his stature, with a full head of hair that had hints of silver wisps radiating out from the crown of his head. A pair of wire-frame glasses were perched on the bridge of his noses, hiding behind them a pair of familiar eyes, just like the pair she had come to know in the future Emerald Publishing CEO.

_Why was it always at the literary conventions?_

“(Name) is fine, Honda-san.” She answered, bowing a little in greeting. “To what do I owe the pleasure? It is rather rare for company Presidents to slum it in these types of events. More grunt work for us creative-types.”

There was a twitch to his eye as she spoke, and (Name) wondered if he had genuinely thought their encounter would be a pleasant one. Foolish – being cornered in a hallway was never a pleasant experience for _any_ party involved.

“I hope I’m not overstepping my boundaries with you (Name), but I do have a question to ask you…” The Emerald Publishing President frowned, “Not ask, no, perhaps offer.”

The writer refrained from lifting a brow at him in curiosity.

“I’m all ears.” She wasn’t. He continued talking, casting a quick glance at the empty hallway to make sure they were not being listened to.

“Well with all the press that has been on you recently, one can’t help but notice certain things – especially at the party two months ago for your trifecta of awards. Word has been going around about possible strife between yourself and the Head of Literature at Kodansha, and I’d hate to think on what type of strain that its causing on your work and performance. Especially when you’re so hardworking and talented. To me, I think your longevity is of the utmost importance, and it’s clear that the boys at Kodansha don’t get that. Natsuki mentioned that last time she saw you, you looked rather unwell – drained, even – and even now you look ill! It’s clear you aren’t going to perform well in this field if you aren’t given your own freedom and agency. And so I thought about your circumstance, and I believe a change in scenery is something you so very need. So, I’d like to offer you a place in my publishing house, and of course we’d be happy to sign you on right away if it pleases you.”

The Chairman finally made eye contact with the writer once more, and the woman trained an expression that could only be described as ‘displeased’ on to her face. The elder Honda remained unfazed as she narrowed her eyes at him, attempting to understand the request.

He was blunt and overt – it was clear as day that he saw the same potential in her writing and presence that everyone at the company believed to see. The people with power were the goal. Everyone was a pawn in a big game of chess, just waiting to be played.

 _So this is where Natsuki gets it from_.

But like Natsuki, her father was not as poised with people and charm as most would expect.

“Are you appealing your sensibilities to me as the father of an old classmate of mine, or as the CEO and Owner of Emerald?” She inquired, “Because there is a difference, sir, I do hope you know that.”

He moved his arms, unfolding them from their position across his chest and pinning them to his sides in an attempt to make himself larger. “And does that difference incite a different answer from you?”

She shrugged, “Not really, no.”

(Name) noticed the dissatisfaction that plastered itself across the man’s face.

“All I’m asking of you is to consider,” he replied, “I’m not looking for an answer now-”

“Coming to me in broad daylight with a business proposal is a tell-tale sign that you want answers now-”

“Is it not more polite to visit a person you’re making a business deal with face-to-face?”

“Not when the encounter happens at a public event and catches them off-guard.” The statement was growled out, rumbling something deep in the pit of her stomach. “There’s more to your offer, Chairman, don’t assume I’m an airhead who doesn’t know how people like you work.”

The air grew stale around them, and (Name) watched as the older man’s face hardened further and further into displeasure. Not only at her, but her circumstance, her interrogation, and his failure to seal the deal because-

“You think I’ll crash and burn in their care.”

“I think you are being too careless with the success you have and the possible avenues of expansion you know you could be doing somewhere else.” Though he replied verbally, there was a flicker of confirmation a few milliseconds before he spoke – and that reaction alone was enough for her to understand everything in its entirety. “I think you need to think more about the future.”

“I have.” She responded with pursed lips. “Really, that’s all I’ve been doing for a long time.”

A step forward punctuated each statement, and slowly she closed the distance between them as she moved further away from her waiting room door.

“I hate to admit it, especially to you of all people Chairman Honda, but the unfortunate rumours of dissatisfaction are somewhat true. I do get annoyed with the operations of the Kodansha Literature Department, I do feel stifled with the possibility of growth there, and I do currently feel sick to the core at the thought of having to write a _fourth_ book in three years. But if you think that I would be willing to jump ship at this point in my life then you are sorely misled. Because yes, I am exhausted – I am overworked to my very bones and I wish the world would shut up, but I’m more exhausted at the thought of people like _you_ thinking you know what’s best for someone like _me_ . Unlike you, I am willing to suffer the consequences that I have created for myself – not Kodansha, _me_ – and will live with the choices and actions I made, no matter how stupid you and anyone else think they are.

“And while it is easy to assume that Kodansha has monopolised my actions and regrets, they haven’t. I don’t do anything I do not want to do – no matter how much I dislike it – because I have a duty to fulfil as a writer under their umbrella and as a decent human being to own up to the things I do. And the company only makes me do the things I do because they have faith that I can do them. You see, Chairman, Kodansha has had my back since I was sixteen, and sure there have been times when they didn’t trust in my choices, but they had every opportunity to drop me – and yet here I am, Poster Child of the Literature Department. They have my back, even when I’m doing stupid, asinine things that may or may not ruin the career I made for myself.

“That’s where you and every other company differ from them, Chairman Honda. Because regardless of how they viewed my writing, they didn’t see me as another writer to monetise. They have always seen me as (Name) (Surname) – the kid from Osaka with too much time on her hands and a few too many ideas in her head. They don’t yield for me – they press and press and make sure I’m ready for the challenge because they believe in the person I am, and are prepared to support the writer that I can be. I know where I stand with them; as an equal –  they don’t _need_ me to do well, they _want_ me to do well. There’s a difference, sir, in being needed, being wanted, and being used – and it is clear as day that if anywhere else, I would be _used_. And that’s not conducive to my pride, sir.

“So for future reference, if you were to ever to present me with an offer like this again, then it is in your best interest to understand that my pride is not something that should be taken lightly.”

(Name) was a little more than a metre away from him now, standing with her shoulders pushed back and a challenging glare on her face. The disgruntlement was completely evident on his face now, the deep wrinkles of his forehead

“You have thought this through.” His tone was clipped, his breathing deep, as if he were calming himself down.

“Like I said, I’ve put a lot of thought into it.” She retorted. “Unlike you, as your plan has crumbled into a powder so fine it is practically unrecognisable.”

And it was then that she saw it, recognised it, the familiar annoyance she had so clearly associated with a young and moody Honda Natsuki. Those flashes of the yellow-eyed monster called pride reared its head, albeit it in a more mature form that she was used to.

“My answer is no.” (Name) deadpanned, cocking her head to the side. “If you have a problem with that, well, that’s not my fault. You should be spending more time focusing on supporting the daughter who is probably just as useful to you as I would be,” a sarcastic smirk appeared on her face, “that’s what family is for, is it not?”

Chairman Honda floundered, and (Name) took that as her cue to leave.

She walked backwards for moment to continue staring at him before she pivoted on the heel of her shoe and made her way towards the waiting room. In a few short strides she was there, hand poised on the doorknob and ready to enter. There was a hesitant step forward from the other body in the hall.

“You’re making a mistake, (Surname)-sensei.”

“Maybe,” she looked over her shoulder, “but there are worse ones I could make.”

With that, she turned the knob and pushed the door open, before slinking inside quickly and locking the door. As it clicked, she sighed, and rested her forehead against the cold wood before turning around.

“Christ, people are annoying-”

On the couch in the centre of the room sat Mattsun, a open packet of chips resting on his lap while the rest of the space on the cushions were littered with empty packages that had not been there prior to her seminar. Makki stood in the centre of the room, a few steps away from the door, wide-eyed in a way that screamed confusion, disbelief, and pride.

She blinked once, twice, and then watched as Makki stepped forward, a grin slowly stretching across his face.

“Oh God how much of that did you hear?”

He was on her in less than a second, arms wrapped around her torso and waist in a tight embrace as he laughed and gushed over what he considered to be “the cheesiest speech anyone could have ever said ever (Name) – oh my God not even the _panel_ was that fucking gross!” Her feet left the ground in uneven intervals, and she felt herself shake from left to right while Mattsun laughed at the obvious discomfort on her face.

At some point, her hands had wrapped themselves around his shoulders, and her hands pat his back a few times.

Mattsun’s words echoed in her mind.

Perhaps caring was not all that bad.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ah man, is it obvious that I hate adults despite being an adult??
> 
> a short chapter in comparison to everything else. the semester has been rough, so sorry about that. but hey! I promise the next chapter will be a little longer!
> 
> 4000 reads????? that's insane, I swear. thank you guy's so much! leave me a comment or a kudos to let me know what you think, especially since we're getting so very very close to the end of the line.


	25. Haste

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Resignation was for cowards.

_October, 2018_

Oikawa Tooru was a dramatic man, of that many people could be certain.

But even he was confused as to why they were doing what they were doing.

The last weekend of October marked the beginning of the 2018-2019 V Premier League season in Japan, and that meant it would be his first step onto the professional circuit. And to mark the beginning of not only his first dive into the pro league, but the start of the season, all V League teams were required to attend an opening ceremony prior to the first day of games.

Which was fine.

If you were actually playing that day.

But the Panthers weren’t on until the next day against the JTEKT Stings, which meant that he had donned the uniform for the first time, only to take it off the moment he set foot in his hotel room.

Again, Oikawa was a dramatic man – but there was only so much he could handle in the theatrics department.

The Opening Ceremony was in Tokyo, at the main Metropolitan Gymnasium where it would conclude an hour before the first match of the entire tournament would take place against Tokyo FC and the Suntory Sunbirds.

Bokuto Koutarou versus Ushijima Wakatoshi.

Two of the top aces of their generation facing off; surely, there was no other way to start a volleyball season.

All eight teams had paraded out onto centre court, standing in long rows that faced one another from either end of the court to mimic the sets of first round matches that would take place over the next two weeks – Tokyo FC opposite the Sunbirds; the Panthers aligned with the Stings; the Thunders and Trefuerza; and the Blazers in front of the Arrows.  The net not in its usual place, leaving the view to the other side unobstructed.

Kuroo stood directly behind him amidst the formalities of the ceremony – it wasn’t hard to miss the ridiculously stupid silhouette that was his hairstyle – the both of them seemingly tuning out the inaugural speech being given. While the middle blocker sought to mumble his upcoming deadlines for final proposals under his breath, Oikawa took to looking around.

Uncannily, Ushiwaka had stood right by his side in the line-up, the childhood rivals donning the same jersey number for their debut season – 10. The olive-eyed male didn’t look back. Instead he nodding in subtle greeting, acutely aware of the chocolate-haired man’s analytically gaze had, indeed, come to rest on him. Oikawa huffed in disgruntlement at the poised reaction of the wing spiker, and he was sure that he saw the faint twitch of a smirk appear on Ushijima’s lips.

From across the way, Oikawa hazarded a glance towards one of the other rows, and he felt his blood run cold at the sight of the golden eyes of Bokuto Koutarou staring at Ushiwaka-

No, staring directly at _him_.

He knew that look – the same look filled with determination and ‘I’m Gonna Surpass You’ that had adorned Tobio-chan’s face and plagued his thoughts throughout high school and into university. Except this time it was more off-putting, because Tarou-chan was talented, but he wasn’t _Ushijima_ skilled. And the fear of uncertainty – the true sense of dread of the unknown – began to permeate deep within Oikawa’s stomach and linger, like something malignant had grown on the walls of all his organs.

And for a second, Oikawa thought that the stare meant something else – that it wasn’t directed at the competition at hand. No, he was sure that it was something about Writer-chan, and the ongoing battle-not-a-really-a-battle for her affection that the Tokyo native had imposed on to them. As if he knew that the woman had yet to leave his mind, as if he knew the mere thoughts that were plaguing his streams of consciousness, as if he himself were going through the same agony of _knowing her_.

Either way, it said “I’ll Win.”

Only one thought passed through Oikawa’s mind.

 _I’d like to see you try_.

He wasn’t sure which scenario he was answering.

 

* * *

 

Later that evening when the team had been left to their own devices in their hotel room, Kuroo had cornered him after Oikawa had exited the bathroom.

The perks of being roommates, he supposed. Oikawa was _so glad_ he lived alone.

Kuroo reclined on the small armchair that was pushed to the side of the room, a few steps away from the small desk that had been pushed into the furthest corner away from the en-suite.  He turned his head away from the TV, straightening his neck to look dead on to the setter, who was in the process of running a white towel over his damp locks.

“You good?”

Oikawa forced himself not to scoff. “Peachy.”

There was a shift against the padding of the armchair, Oikawa kept his gaze down as he moved to his bag to retrieve a shirt. He felt Kuroo’s gaze follow him.

“How’s the writer?”

“Getting intel?”

“Satiating my genuine curiosity about her.” Kuroo hummed. “I haven’t met her, and the one time I did see her she was overshadowed by your massive head.” The bed-headed male ignored the pout on the setter’s face. “She must be something else if she can get two of my best friends glaring at each other from across an Olympic size court.”

The brunet refrained from snapping his head up at the insinuation that laced the blockers words.

‘She’s not that great,’ his mind answered back, ‘she’s the most average, uninteresting person that I’ve ever had the honour of meeting and I am unable to get her out of my fucking head Tetsu-chan hELP ME-’

“She’s fine.” Oikawa chose to reply. “Been busy.”

Kuroo hummed. “With what?”

“Writer things – I don’t keep tabs on her.”

“Now that, I really can’t believe.”

“I promise, it’s not butter.”

“You’ve gotten worse at lying these days, Oiks.” That sentence forced his head up, hazel eyes meeting dark brown. The knowing look on the blocker’s face unsettled him even further. “It’s just us here, you can admit you like her.”

The setter remained silent, obstinate, and stared at the blocker with a look that said ‘Try me bitch.’

Kuroo sighed.

“Do you two literally only talk on those dumb balconies?”

He faltered. “If I say yes, how stupid would that make me look?”

“Very.”

“Jokes on you, it would have been a yes either way.”

Kuroo laughed. “Such a smooth operator, Oiks, can’t even get a girl’s number.” He tutted. “You must’ve lost your touch.”

It’s not like Oikawa didn’t have her number – he did. Mattsun had called him on her phone the previous weekend since he was ignoring his calls.

(“I can’t get you free tickets to the Panther’s first match. It’s sold out, Mattsun.” Oikawa groaned, a mere few minutes after he had mistakenly picked up the unnamed number. “And whose phone are you even calling on?”

“You say that, but you haven’t even _tried_. It’s either this or tag along with Iwaizumi in the reporter’s area, and I’d rather not be that close to the action – thanks.” The blocker tutted. “And it’s (Name)’s; I’m surprised you don’t have her number.”

“What do you mean?”

“So you’ll get me those tickets, yeah?”)

Did he save her number? No. Was it on his phone for the possibility of future convenience? Yes. Would he tell Tetsu-chan that? No.

That would mean proving his point, and that was the _last_ thing he wanted to do.

So he took the insult, because that was the only option he was willing to take. “Guess I bruised my Skills when I tore my ACL up.”

Kuroo hummed, and Oikawa caught him stand up and fiddle with his phone, which he picked up from where it lay idly on the arm rest. The brunet stopped his ministrations and threw the shirt on, manoeuvring his arms through their respective holes while he still held the damp towel. As he fixed himself up, he continued to run the fabric over his scalp.

“So was this worth it?” He asked, head down and voice muffled by the shuffling of the towel barrier. “Did you find anything worth reporting to Tarou-chan?”

There was a flash of hurt on Kuroo’s face, as if the comment had done more damage than Oikawa anticipated, but it receded as quickly as it came, being replaced with a level voice and a firm stare.

“No, but most of my questions are answered.”

Oikawa stopped drying his hair at the realisation that his friend was now much closer than he had originally anticipated. He lifted his head, eyeing the very short distance between the two teammates, before he tried to steel his gaze the same way Kuroo had done.

“My aunt works pretty high up the rankings for a daytime talk show. I get the inside scoop for some of the more _investigative_ pieces that they run – or at the very least ones that she thinks that I’ll find interesting.” He pressed his phone into the setter’s now clothed chest. Oikawa grabbed it instinctively, letting both the towel in his hands drop to the floor and the blocker step away from him and retrieve his one from the bed. “This what they’re going to run as a feature for Monday’s show.”

There was a second of nothing before Oikawa tore the phone away from his chest and stared at the one photo amidst the sea of texts.

Him. And (Name).

The pair were caught mid step down a familiar street, the faint glow of the konbini behind them as the night froze around their illuminated silhouettes. He was looking down at her, watching as she rummaged through the plastic bag for food, waiting patiently for his turn. And the look on his face.

He knew that look, had observed it all too well on another’s face what felt like years ago.

And it was then that his diaphragm crushed his stomach.

“You can lie to me all you want and say that you don’t feel anything for her,” Oikawa looked up, noting that Kuroo was stood much closer to the bathroom, “but when I see something like _that_ ,” he pointed to the phone, “a guy can’t help but think there’s something more to the story.”

The last time Oikawa floundered was in front of Iwa-chan.

In fact the _only_ time he floundered was in front of Iwa-chan.

But nothing could stop the way his mouth moved of its own accord to deny and destroy and disembowel the argument Kuroo had put forward. It was a mess of words, of syllables, all strung together with the way he felt his face tinge with heat as the bed-headed man continued to stare at him unimpressed.

A mess of “You don’t know what you’re talking about” and “We aren’t even friends” and “I can’t believe you would say that” and “How did they even catch us we snuck out” all tried to leave his mouth, and erupted from within as if floodgates had opened of their own volition.

The mantra in his head was a dull thump of _no no no no no no no_ that got louder and louder and louder, until it entwined with the sound of blood rushing and pounding inside his eardrums.

And then there was silence as Oikawa registered the sympathetic look on Kuroo’s face; the same look he would give Tarou-chan when he was having a rough day.

“Figure it out.” He interrupted, a small smile on his face. “Cause I mean it when I said that I don’t want you to fuck it up.”

And then he stepped into the bathroom, shutting the door behind him with the soft click of the lock.

It wasn’t until he heard the soft torrent of water from the shower head that Oikawa had determined he was _so fucked_.

 

* * *

 

“Makoto, breathe, calm down yeah?”

“How can I be calm, (Name)?! Nothing is going right and my Maid of Honour isn’t even here to beat the panic out of me!”

The writer pulled the phone away from her ear for a moment, wincing at the sheer volume and power Makoto’s voice still  had even through the filter of both their receivers.

Then again, (Name) thought, Makoto and Stress™ had never been a good combination, and with her vast understanding of Fuyutsuki Makoto she should have anticipated such strong reactions.

But this? This was far too much for her to handle from afar. A hands-on approach was very much required.

“I’m already leaving tomorrow night, babe, I just need to finish up a few things here in Tokyo then I’ll be all yours for the rest of the week.”

“ _What_ is more important than my wedding, (Name)?”

She hesitated. A lot of things were – the state of the economy, the possibility that democracy was a mistake, the threat of nuclear war, her hatred for Hisakawa and his intrusiveness.

 _Don’t say any of that - just diffuse the situation_.

“Never mind, the point is that I will be out your way by tomorrow afternoon. Just, tell me what’s going on so I have time to come up with a game plan for the bullshit.”

Her best friend grumbled, and there was sound of shuffling and ruffling that punctuated the exasperation emanating from the other side of the line – (Name) could practically _see_ the way she was pulling at the roots of her hair in frustration.

“There’s just so much drama, (Name), I don’t understand how things got out of control and why _no one told me about this_.”

“Still don’t know what ‘this’ is.”

The soon-to-be-bride sighed.

“You remember my friend Yuki, right?”

(Name) frowned.

“Captain of the Chess Club Yuki?”

“Other Yuki.”

“Yuki Ripped-Open-Class-President’s-Shirt-At-The-Festival Yuki?”

“No, the other Yuki!”

“Makoto, you have befriended eight different Yukis in the time I’ve known you. You gotta be specific.”

“Yuki Tried-To-Fist-Fight-The-Janitor-After-She-Got-Caught-Smoking-On-The-Roof Yuki.”

“Ah, yes, Yankee Yuki.”

“And you know how my sister Harumi is an absolute shithead?”

“Very aware, yes.”

“ _Apparently_ ,” the word came out as a hiss, “there was a situation that happened at the last dress rehearsal-”

“There was a dress rehearsal?”

“I trust you enough to not fuck up on the day – everyone else, not so much.” Makoto scoffed, sniffing amidst her break in monologue to diffuse whatever tension she thought she could diffuse. “Besides the point! Ichiro’s best man Kenta is bringing a date, and my sister is bringing a date. Not a big deal right? We’re all adults, we know the proper etiquette, who am I to say who is and is not allowed to be with someone? So I let all the dates come to this rehearsal, since it would’ve been boring and we may as well all get to know each other before the big day. But I didn’t realise that Kenta is dating Yankee Yuki and Harumi’s boyfriend Jiro is Yankee Yuki’s _ex-boyfriend_.”

“Didn’t end well, huh?” (Name) pondered aloud.

“Yuki did some shady shit to Jiro when they were both working for the same nightclub and broke up with him, and Harumi decided to take that _very personally_. ‘Hurt the people I care about, I hurt you’ type of personally.”

“She gets that pride from me, I’m sorry.”

“And I just don’t know what to do!”

“Kill them all, dump the bodies in the ocean.”

“It’s not like I can tell them that they can’t bring their dates-”

“Yes you could-”

“And I don’t want to take Harumi out of the wedding because she’s my sister.”

“I mean, there are worse things you can do.”

“Weddings are meant to be _happy_ , (Name)! People should want to be happy with the people they care about – not focus on what happened in the past!”

(Name) hadn’t realised she was pinching the bridge of her nose until the pain shot up into her temples.

That, she thought, was the most Makoto thing she had ever heard in her entire life. It was just like her, to want other people to be happy, even if it meant sacrificing what she wanted and what was actually good for other people. Perhaps maturity would come to her in marriage – but for now it appeared (Name) would need to act as the logic.

“What do you need me to do?”

(Name) heard Makoto take a sharp inhale of air.

“I mean,” she continued, “I can lecture all of them – the Maid of Honour is meant to be the asshole in place of the bride on the actual day of the ceremony, but I’ll gladly push it back if it means less responsibility on the day.”

More silence followed before Makoto audibly gulped.

“You’re still bringing a plus one, right? Because if you are then that evens out the numbers and I can put them on to the table with the other bridal party partners.”

“Makoto-”

“It can be Mattsun – hell you could even take _Hanamaki_ – I just need you to bring someone that people can’t hate so that I can separate Yankee Yuki and Jiro and prevent World War III from happening at my reception!”

The writer balanced the phone between her ear and hunched shoulder, letting the palms of both hands rub large, soothing circles across the flat plains of her cheeks and forehead. She had forgotten about the plans that were made in Osaka after their reconciliation – Makoto had tried to convince her to take the Mysterious Guy who successfully brought the Prodigal Daughter back home to their city as her plus-one to the big day.

She had denied – dates weren’t her style, she argued, and the likelihood was that the poor person would be forced to deal with People not even _she_ wanted to put up with while she got stuck doing Maid of Honour duties.

But Makoto had been persistent, and had been very adamant on the idea of her best friend having _someone_ there to share the festivities. Everyone was bringing someone and you don’t want to be a loner, had been the rhetoric for the few weeks leading up towards the official date. And to satiate her nagging and prying, (Name) had said she’d “think about it”, which was her way of brushing it off until the last minute where she would claim everyone she knew was busy that weekend.

In no way had (Name) anticipated a situation such as this to force her hand.

(She made a mental note to slap some sense into the youngest Fuyutsuki child.)

She didn’t _have_ to bring anyone – dates and plus-ones were conventions of traditional conversation making she was still unused to, and while she knew she was progressing nicely with the whole Don’t Be An Ass thing, there was still a lot of ground to cover until she was able to handle the prying eyes of people and the judgement that constantly followed.

But this was Makoto.

And though they didn’t see eye to eye on a lot of things (as evident in events gone by), she knew that the woman meant no harm to her. She would have genuinely thought this through, especially if it was the last resort of soothing the circumstances as her tone so adamantly conveyed through the call.

The words swirled around in her mind.

_Someone people can’t hate…_

A pair of eyes appeared in her mind.

The (h/c)-haired writer sighed. “I can bring someone, no sweat.” Makoto inhaled sharply, audibly overjoyed at the response. “ _You_ just need to calm down. I’ll handle the seating arrangements when I get down there.”

“And you can still pick up the decorations I ordered from-”

“I’ll look like an idiot carrying them on the shinkansen and ferry but yes, I will get them.”

And then came the laughter, the peals of giggles and snorts slowly morphed into exasperated sighs and huffs that were then punctuated by what (Name) could only assume were tears and sobs of relief.

“(Name)~” The bride whined, the writer forced herself not to roll her eyes as each syllable of her name was accented with a hiccup.

“Crying so close to naptime will give you puffy eyes, and you don’t want that when you probably have darks circles – do you _want_ to look like you had an allergic reaction right before your big day?”

There was another gurgle of words – a muddled mixture of “I owe you,” “I love you,” and “You’re a lifesaver.”

(Name) had nodded along, still rubbing her temples as she murmured her own responses closely akin to that of “I know, now sleep.”

And then she was left with a dial tone.

She sighed, raising her head from its tilted position. The phone slipped from her shoulder, down the front of her chest and land comfortably in her lap. The contact details for Makoto stared at her for a moment before they disappeared from the screen.

“Fuck me sideways.” She grumbled, slowly sinking into the cushions of her couch and letting her head loll to rest against the backing.

In a similar fashion to what had happened for her that year, (Name) (Surname) had no idea what to do. Sure, she needed to follow through with her promise, but there was a significant difference in _saying_ something and actually _acting_ on it.

‘Bring someone that people can’t hate’ was a very subjective set of criteria she had been given; and it became even more of a contentious issue considering how much of an ass (Name) was and, by extension, how upfront the people she preferred to be around tended to be.

The concept of ‘easy to like’ was not that easy to obtain, at least in her mind.

But she needed to bring someone – as the Maid of Honour and Makoto’s Best Girl she had a duty to uphold.

(That, and the whole Don’t Be An Ass thing.)

Lifting her head back up, she unlocked her phone and began to scroll through the numerous personal contacts and options for her date to the wedding.

Her gaze settled and softened on the familiar name, and the flash of colour she had seen in her mind not too long ago returned if but for a brief second.

(Name)’s thumb hovered over the number listed under the name, brows pinched into a tight furrow and deep wrinkles etching themselves into her skin as she hesitated.

“You know what?” She grumbled to herself, straightening out her back while her grip tightened around the phone. “Fuck it.”

_Risk and Reward._

_What was the Reward?_

_Fuck if I know._

She jammed her thumb down against the screen, watching as the screen faded from the contact details to the call screen. Raising the device to her each, she waited for the dial tone to cease.

And it wasn’t until she heard a response that she realised she had been holding her breath.

 

* * *

 

“I thought you said he was fine.”

“Yeah, guess he’s gotten better at the whole lying thing.”

Akaashi frowned, folding his arms across his chest. The man opposite him remained stoic, his eyes flittering back towards the door he stood in front of, a clear sign that the person they were discussing was still inside.

“He’s stopped being open with me once we got back from Italy.”

“And you choose to intervene now?”

“The opening ceremony for the season set me off. And I’ve been ass deep in work for my Masters, sue me.”

The two friends stood outside Kuroo and Bokuto’s apartment, speaking in hushed and hurried whispers that barely reverberated around the plain walls of the hallway. Akaashi had rushed over at the middle blocker’s SOS text, and there was a part of him that wasn’t sure if that had been the best decision.

“You got my other text, right?”

Akaashi nodded, eyeing the doorway. The photos Pain-in-the-Ass Kuroo-san had confirmed the slow forming theory the younger male had for most of the year. “Are you sure they’re airing it today?”

“Any minute now,” Kuroo confirmed, “and I know he’s watching the show because I heard it before I went inside.”

The dark-haired setter blinked. “You haven’t even gone inside.” He deadpanned.

“I can’t risk it! He’ll absolutely _flip_ , ‘Kaashi! He knows I know someone who works for them – he will ask questions and then the whole charade we’ve worked on is down the drain.”

He frowned. “So you want me to deal with it?”

“He can’t get angry with you – you’re too pretty.”

Hazel met steel-grey, and both of them sighed in unison.

“I’m not a miracle worker, you know this.”

“You’re the closest thing we’ve got.” Kuroo reached out and clapped the shorter male on his shoulder, squeezing the muscle and skin tightly. “I owe you, honestly.”

Akaashi patted his hand and then removed it from its place, slowly pushing past him to open the door to the pair’s apartment. He looked over his shoulder one last time, murmuring that “We’re both in this together” before he disappeared behind the barrier.

As he stepped into the apartment, the first thing he noticed was how dark it was. Granted, the Idiot Duo’s home had a tendency to be a bit darker than most, this was not like other times. The curtains for the small balcony were drawn shut with only faint streams of the midday sun seeping through the tightly knit fibres, and the only real light source came from the small TV set that was opposite the couch.

And there he sat, the familiar monochrome-haired spiker huddled on the couch, legs tucked under his bum while the light from the screen casted a dark shadow of his silhouette on the back wall.

He didn’t realise his old teammate entered the room until he was standing right near the sofa.

“Bokuto-san.”

The ace turned his head slowly to face Akaashi, a fake smile adorning his features. At this distance, Akaashi noticed the slightly darkened crescents that clung to the bottom of his eyes. He looked more than tired – exhausted was the better word, perhaps even _drained_.

“Kuroo-san is worried about you.”

Bokuto shrugged. “He’s got better things to worried about.”

“You don’t get to decide the importance of yourself to other people.”

His expression morphed into something closer to melancholy, and the spiker averted his gaze from his friend.

“That’s from her book.” He sighed. “From that one poem. ‘But we do not get to infer our importance to the people we leave behind… I have always preferred allowing the uncertainty of Tomorrow to grant me the most humbling End’.”

Akaashi felt his eyes widen. “You read it.”

“Of course I read it.” He gestured to the book that lay forgotten on the kitchen counter. “It’s hard not to read the book that appeared on your doorstep early in the morning.” Akaashi followed his hand and saw it there.

A simple black paperback book, with only one word written on the entire cover, stark white text centred in the middle.

 **Observations**.

Something heavy dropped into his stomach – he didn’t recognise that design. It was one far different from the ones that were marketed throughout Japan over the last few months.

Three words ran through his mind.

_An original copy._

Akaashi slowly moved, sitting down on the armrest closest to the spiker. Bokuto huffed and relaxed back, leaning towards the younger man. “I haven’t spoken to her in months, Akaashi.” He sighed, lips forming into a sad pout. “I know I should be trying to move on from her but I just can’t get her out of my mind.” His head landed on the top of the other male’s thigh, and as soon as it found purchase he let the full weight of his exhaustion press down on them both.

The setter refrained from sighing at the reaction. “Have you actually been trying?”

Bokuto laughed bitterly. “I have. But she’s just… _there_ , y’know? It’s like she’s always been here in my life and suddenly I get told she isn’t – that she _can’t_ be.”

There was a beat of silence.

“I want her to be happy and I can’t help but think that she can only be that when _she_ is with _me_.” He confessed in a shaky exhale of air. “My parents always told me that being nice was going to backfire on me one day – that I needed to know what it was I wanted and fight for it… I always thought that was volleyball; I didn’t realise I would have to fight someone like (Name).

“And like, I know we were two very different people but it could’ve worked! I just want answers now; I just need to know where the fuck I went wrong, because it has to be _me_ that fucked up-”

“I asked her to.”

Silence-

“What?”

The confession slipped by as if it were as natural as breathing, as if lying was second nature to someone like Akaashi Keiji. To an extent is was, but Bokuto didn’t have to know that.

“I asked her, for the sake of your own well-being and for her own sanity, to stay away from you until you had settled down. I predicted that that would be sometime towards the end of the year, when you were a little more distracted with volleyball, a little less high-strung from the stress of your affections for her mixed with the concerns of the international competitions you needed to do well in.”

The younger man swallowed down the lump in his throat.

“And I did it because I was worried about you, Bokuto-san. Because Kuroo-san and I were concerned that maybe you were too far gone and that nothing we could do to help you would be enough. So we needed (Surname)-sensei to help, even if that meant stopping you from talking to her. And it hurt, I know it did, I felt bad about it for so long, but please understand that this is what we needed to do for you. Everyone wants you to be okay, and you couldn’t – you _wouldn’t_ if she was still reminding you of the rejection that you don’t deserve to dwell on.”

Bokuto’s breathing remained even and steady.

“I’m glad.” He began, his tone clipped and his sentences short. “I’m glad that you and Kuroo care so much. And I’m glad it hurt. But it didn’t hurt you as much as it did me.” He lifted his head from its position and turned to look his old vice-captain dead in the eye. “But you don’t know her the way I do – that she still _needed_ me after Osaka, that there was still so much for us to figure out and you just, just ignored whatever progress we were making for the sake of an outcome you knew would eventually come.”

Akaashi’s eyes widened – in shock and confusion, Bokuto wasn’t sure – but it compelled him to keep going, to finally let out the frustration he had felt that the unwitting cause of his strife.

“Bokuto-san-”

“No, I can’t _believe_ you and Kuroo did that to me! I get you were looking out for me but you didn’t know her the way I did! You didn’t see how broken and tired of everything she was – and she was only ever happy when she was with me. I could see the relief in her eyes, I knew she was getting better with me by her side and I – I didn’t want to let her – I _couldn’t_ let her go that easily-”

“No, Bokuto-san-”

“No, I can’t keep-”

“Bokuto-san! Look!”

The spiker stopped dead. He had never heard Akaashi raise his voice that loudly. And when he saw the way his eyes had trained themselves on to the TV set instead of him, he couldn’t help but let his gaze wander in curiosity to see-

Her.

And Oikawa.

And a headline.

**RISKY RENDEZVOUS**

_Unexpected romance rumoured between Best Selling Author and Rookie Athlete, reports industry insider._

Confused.

That was the first thing Bokuto felt as he slowly began to absorb the information displayed before him on the screen.

Because no, tabloids were normally wrong, and if anything the alleged ‘insider’ was lying and trying to sell a story and make a quick dollar or three.

Because (Name) wasn’t the type of person to let this slide so easily into the public eye, nor was she the person to let herself be caught in a situation that the Head Editor dude would consider ‘compromising to her career’.

Because Oikawa would have announced his relationship since he was the biggest peacock Bokuto had ever met his mind, especially if there led to the possibility of more exposure and recognition for himself in one way or another.

So there was no universe where that story would be true, and there was no way Bokuto should have believed it.

But he did.

And then one thought took over every avenue of common sense.

“That could have been us.”

Akaashi frowned.

“Pining over her wasn’t healthy for either of you.”

Bokuto shook his head, as if trying to rid himself of intrusive thoughts. “I was fine.”

“No you weren’t-”

“ _I would have been_ ,” the words were almost growled out, “there are a lot of things I would have been if you just treated me like an adult! I would be by her side right there-” He pointed to the now smaller image of Oikawa and (Name), his voice cracking.

Akaashi shook his head. “No,” he argued, “you wouldn’t have been okay. And it’s time for you to do what you should have been doing and move on.”

Faint discussion from the talk show filled the space where Bokuto’s retort should have been, and Akaashi watched as the man before him all but deflated at the slow building acceptance that he was forced to take.

“You wanted her to be happy, right? Just look at her…” Akaashi pulled his lips into a tight line. “You’ve helped her, she’s fine – she’s happier now.”

He place a hand tentatively on to his friend’s shoulder. Bokuto didn’t move away.

“It’s time for you to be happy… Even if that means doing it without her.”

Time seemed to stop, and the only sign of its progression was the way the hosts displayed on the TV slowly switched gears to a story that was obviously lacklustre when compared to supposed revelation of (Name) and Tooru.

And then Bokuto pushed his hand away, slowly pivoting on his behind so that his back was pressed flush against the sofa backing and his feet were planted firmly on the floor. A look of defeat crossed his handsome features, and the way tone that laced his voice could only be described as resignation.

“Can you go Akaashi… Please?”

A brief internal monologue forced the setter to nod in understanding – Bokuto was hurting, not only from the writer but from his friends, and needed distance. Distance was always a good thing.

As the dark-haired male stood up and made his way to the door, he cast a cursory glance over his shoulder to see the man staring off into space, gaze trained on the LCD screen that continued to flash with garishly coloured infomercials.

“I’m sorry.” He called out with a disheartened look on his face. “We just wanted what’s best for you.”

When he received no answer, he knew it was time to leave. He jammed his feet back into his loafers and stepped back out into the hallway, slowly shutting the door behind him. As he turned, he was all but crowded by a bed-headed individual.

“So what-!?” Akaashi shook his head, averting his gaze and looking at any location that wasn’t Kuroo Tetsurou. “Akaashi?”

“Give him time,” Akaashi murmured, pushing his against the blocker’s defined chest, “he had a rough one.”

The man opened and closed his mouth a few times, the syllables decaying in the air as he tried to argue against him. But the look on Akaashi’s face was drained – was much darker and gloomier than when he had arrived – so instead he nodded.

If Akaashi said Bokuto needed time, he’d get time.

When Kuroo returned to the apartment ten minutes later, Bokuto was nowhere to be found.

 

* * *

 

Resignation was for cowards.

He left down the emergency stairs no less than a minute after he was left alone, focused on reaching the familiar apartment building occupied by (Surname) (Name).

A part of him found it funny that he had remembered every path to (Name)’s apartment every brief shortcut he could take and the exact timings of pedestrian crossings at intersections. Another part of him thought nothing of it – he loved her, and when you love you remember, even if your mind can’t take the excess information. Love always finds a way.

As he passed by the small business district, his long strides increased in pace and he hurtled himself through the last stretch towards her apartment. The foot traffic died down as he neared, and he urged himself to keep sprinting, don’t look back, keep going, get to her-

He threw open the lobby door and took off towards the staircase, tackling each flight with an ease that was nothing short of terrifying. His body burned, muscles screaming from the sudden and intense exertion, and his lungs and heart were thumping as if they were in the throngs of the final set, the final play for a season.

The fourteenth floor appeared like an oasis in the desert, and he threw open the door and shot forward through the hallway.

A man stood in front of her apartment, hand on the doorknob as he slowly went to open.

The man turned his head to the sudden flurry of heavy footsteps against the carpeted floors, eyes wide in surprise at the unexpected appearance of-

“Bokuto?”

“Hanamaki-!”

The former latched on to the editor’s shoulder, one hand bracing himself against his body while the other rested on a bent knee as he struggled to catch his breath (as well as whatever remained of his dignity after running to the other side of the district). The fragments of inquiries and observations muddled together into one coherent deduction.

If he was standing there, he thought, (Name) was definitely home.

Before he could press, the pink-haired male interjected.

“What are you even doing here dude!?”

Bokuto wheezed. “What?”

“You shouldn’t be here right now!”

He stopped panting, feeling electricity flow up and down his veins as the editor exclaimed what could only be considered a demand.

_Was this fuck gonna stop me from seeing her as well?_

Hanamaki was a good guy – an acquaintance Bokuto was happy to have made – but not even he was safe from the frustrated and angry storm that brewed deep in his body.

“Look buddy,” his grip tightened on his shoulder, “I don’t need you telling me what I can and cannot do right now. I need to see (Name) and I will take you down if it means I can get to her faster.”

“No! I just-!” He pulled his phone from his pocket with his free hand and clicked the screen on to check the time. His brows pinched together in confusion, and Bokuto loosened his grip slightly. “Shouldn’t you be on the shinkansen right now?”

The spiker blinked.

_The bullet train?_

“Why?”

“What do you mean ‘why’?”

“Why should I be travelling?”

Hanamaki’s face paled.

“Makoto’s wedding…” The editor began. “(Name) left this morning and said she and her guest needed to leave early, so I needed to look after her apartment…” He gulped, the saliva burning his vocal chords. “Did she…”

_Did she not tell you?_

_Did she not invite you?_

_Did she not take you?_

From the storm brewing within, a cold wind coursed through his nervous system and settled like a cloud in his skull, sending chills down his temples and through the entire length of his body.

“I haven’t heard from (Name) in three months.” The confession left an acrid aftertaste in his mouth. In both their mouths.

The cogs in Makki’s mind whirred as the words resonated. It had been months since he thought so quickly – he reserved that type of brain power for editing (Name)’s works – and the sense of confusion that flooded his sense was the same he had experienced when Mattsun kissed him for the first time.

Which was bade (the feeling, not kiss) because that meant that there was something definitely wrong, and something that the pair of them had completely missed.

Mattsun had been right with his assertion that the spiker and writer had not been in contact for a while, but Makki hadn’t anticipated that it was something of (Name)’s own volition. He convinced himself it was a mutual decision, a temporary decision that would enable both of them to focus on life before actually coming together again.

But the broken expression on Bokuto’s face was enough to tell him that even with the subtle intervention, this was not the case.

He had missed out on the signs, and Bo had missed the chances he could have taken.

He was fucked.

 _They_ were fucked.

And as the realisation continued to permeate and the anger filtered away from the man standing opposite him, Hanamaki felt time freeze for second as a single question arose in his mind.

“I…”

Bokuto looked up.

“I’m just confused, man.” He met his gaze. “If _you_ didn’t go with her, and neither did Mattsun or I then… Who did she take as her guest?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh man, i wonder who she took?
> 
>  
> 
> so here's a longer update to make up for how short chap. 24 was!  
> also, ngl, this kind of hurt to write.
> 
>  
> 
> wish me luck for my finals next week, because once those are done we can finally hit the home run stride ive been dying to take you on!
> 
> much love, look after yourselves!!
> 
>  
> 
> also, tags will be updated next chapter (maybe).


	26. Façade

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> But she persevered, and relented, all in the same hour, because the small part of her that was impressed had admittingly found it endearing as well. That, she thought, and the fact that she did owe him one for the favour she sprung upon him so suddenly. 
> 
> ‘Baby steps,’ she reminded herself, ‘because neither of us are good with leaps and bounds.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I tried to get a lot done in this chapter since it's a lowkey climax
> 
> have fun with the 10k words

_November, 2018_

The highway undulated alongside the green hills, and dispersed amongst the curves were scattered towns and homesteads bordered by small fields of greens and browns. The cabin of the silver sedan was quiet, save for the song playing on the radio – some peppy idol mega-hit about first loves and the will-he-won’t-he of a confession. She bopped her head along, continuing to stare out at the slightly busy road before them.

The man in the driver’s seat tapped his fingers against the steering wheel in time with the melody.

“You didn’t have to do this Iwaizumi.” The writer kept her head forward to look out the windscreen, letting her gaze flicker from hill to hill as it passed them by.

“Don’t mention it,” he replied, “it’s what friends do.”

They hadn’t talked to each other in a few months – face to face or otherwise – but there was something nice about talking to the man. She could see why Mattsun and Makki had spoken so highly of the Seijoh Ace. And yet the definition of their friendship was interesting for (Name) to hear come so easily from the man; she wasn’t used to not having to try when it came to socialising for once.

She attributed his ease of understanding to his long-term friendship with a particular setter. And a pair of idiots in love.

 _Nice Guy Iwaizumi_.

“Plus the wedding’s in Onomichi,” he added, “I don’t mind.”

“What were you doing in Okayama anyway?” She turned her head to the right to face him. “Business or pleasure?”

“Work.” He supplied. “Covered the Women’s V League last week. This weekend it’s the Men’s down in Hiroshima. Didn’t wanna take the train for such a short trip so I got J-Sports to hire a car for me.”

The (h/c)-haired writer frowned. “Taking the train is _faster_ , you know that right?”

“I like driving more.”

“You are the first Japanese person to ever say that, I’m sure of it.”

Iwaizumi shrugged, still donning the contented smile he had on his face as they continued to drive.

“Subverting the expectations,” he took a hand off the wheel and scratched his cheek, “I like it. Glad I can still surprise even the Great (Surname).”

The woman rolled her eyes at his comment, refraining from hitting him just in case it drew his attention away from the road.

The silence that followed was stuffy, mixing with the changing melody of one song to another as the faint hum of the engine reverberated through the cabin. The heater was on, and (Name) reached over to adjust her side of the vents.

“I think it has something to do with escapism.” The raven haired man announced a little over five minutes after the silence first consumed them. She turned to face him, a quizzical look on her face. “Why I like driving, there’s something about it that is just… It just screams _freedom_ , I guess.”

“All means of transport are escapist.” She argued, watching as he shook his head.

“No they aren’t. Planes, trains, buses, taxis – they all stop running by midnight. But driving my own car? I can grab my keys and just _go_ , y’know? Leave for a few days and live out of it to clear my head. These things,” Iwaizumi drummed his fingers against the steering wheel, “have no curfew, no lockouts. Freedom in its finest form, (Surname).”

She hummed. “Must have a lot of things on your mind if you like running away so much.”

“Probably.”

There was an aura of serenity about the man – a new sense of pride and peace that (Name) would not have attributed to him when they first met. Though his features were defined and rugged, with a defined jawline and a demure expression, the expression he wore did little to mare the bronzed complexion of his facial features. The admission of his feelings for her neighbour – the distance he kept from him at the very least – appeared to be enough of a reset for him. He was happy, and she was glad that _someone_ was – these days happy was in short supply.

“What about you, foreigner?”

She snapped out of her stupor. “Oh, I’ve always got something on my mind.”

“I mean about driving and cars.” He chuckled. “Not one for road trips? You seem more the shinkansen type.”

The colour drained from her face ever so slightly. Iwaizumi watched and she swallowed long and slow, forcing a lump down the length of her throat.

“Yeah, not really my thing.” A distant look appeared in her eye. “No memories are fond enough.”

The reporter angled his head so he could get a better look at her, pulling his lips into a tight frown. Baggage. He had vivid memories of Mattsun asking him for advice on talking to people back in university – as if _he_ was the right person to ask about _communication_ – and how to avoid unsavoury topics – because he was _very_ good at the whole Avoid Your Feelings™ thing.

And after their minor encounters, Iwaizumi was sure that this was who Mattsun was mulling over, and it seemed her circumstances, though better than when they all first met, were still in the forefront of her mind, weighing her down.

He glanced at the clock in the dashboard. 45 minutes until they arrived.

“Wanna get food?”

“We’re almost there.”

“Pit stop – you always have to have one on a road trip.”

“Two hours in the car is not a road trip.”

“It is when you hate cars.” He argued, watching the slight quirk of a smirk on her face. “We’ll head straight to Onomichi after, promise.”

(Name) shifted her head to face him, watching the glimmer of mischief sparkle in his eyes as the sun barred down on them through the lens of the windscreen. The one hand that remained on the steering wheel was relaxed, barely holding on to the rubber casing, while his other hand rested on the gearshift, ready to change gears.

There was nothing wrong with prolonging the inevitable, she thought, especially when the inevitable was the stress of a wedding happen in less than six days. (Name) was trying to be a good person, which meant keeping promises that she said she would keep. But the possibility of adventure – minute as it may be in the grand scheme of things.

Another voice in her head chimed in. More time with Iwaizumi also meant more chance for information, and she was _always_ one for reconnaissance before a big mission.

“I _really_ want a burger.”

The spiker snorted, but accelerated slightly, changing lanes to get in front of a slew of slow cars in front of them before he took the exit ramp down towards Kasaoka. She couldn’t help but laugh at his eagerness.

“You really wanna waste petrol, don’t you?”

“I ain’t paying for it.”

“And here I thought you were actually a good guy, Iwaizumi!”

“Rule #1, (Surname), don’t judge me by my handsome face. I grew up with Oikawa.” He side eyed her with a wider grin than before. “I’m _really_ good at pretending.”

 

* * *

 

Onomichi was a seaside town on the eastern seaboard of the main island, and one of the smallest cities within the Hiroshima Prefecture. Most of the tourist attractions were aloft on high cliffs, overlooking the lip of the large body of water that separated the main downtown area from the surround island districts.

The Bella Vista Sakaigahama resort hotel was one of these locations lucky enough to be blessed with a view overlooking the Seto Inland sea, a deep blue body of water that barely touched the cliff face the hotel stood upon. The resort itself was not as grand as the hotels of Metropolitan Tokyo, but the charm and warmth of its design offset the unfamiliarity of the faux-countryside.

“This the place?”

“It screams ‘Romantic’, so I’m gonna say we’re in the right spot.” She pressed her face to the window slightly, breath casting a fog over the once clear surface. “Makoto can really pick them.”

Iwaizumi pulled the car through the drop off bay, and immediately a bellhop came retrieve the luggage in the back. The pair got out, bowing and greeting the employees before assisting in unloading the goods; one suitcase and three boxes worth of decorations for the wedding reception and ceremony that were stored in the trunk. (Name) made sure to text Makoto of the safe arrival of the goods (her as well, but the decorations were probably more important at this moment in time).

When she was done, she turned back to Iwaizumi, who was leaning against the hood of the sedan.

“Thanks again for the lift, Iwaizumi. It helped a lot.”

“Like I was gonna let you carry all that bullshit on the train.” He shrugged. “Don’t mention it, yeah? We’re even.”

“Whatever you say.”

He laughed at her disbelief. “What’s your plan now?”

“Check in, drop off the decorations. I gotta pick the idiot up from the station after that,” she chuckled, “he’d never find this place himself.”

“Want me to take you there as well?”

“You willing to put up with me for another twenty minutes?”

“You make surprisingly good travel company, I’ve got no objections to another mini road trip.”

She tilted her head to the side. “You gonna talk to him?”

“Who says I’m talking to him? I’m just dropping you off.”

“You’re hilarious.” She snorted. “And in need of better closure.”

The man shrugged. “Probably… I’ll talk to him if his team wins the Emperor’s Cup.”

(Name) let out a low whistle. “You’ve got pretty high hopes for him, don’t you?”

“I have high hopes for everyone, and unfortunately ‘everyone’ still includes him.”

They locked eyes for a moment, and (Name) broke the contact for a second to shake her head.

“I’ll be fine, don’t worry. Besides, you have work to do in Hiroshima.”

He rolled his eyes and groaned, grumbling out a “Don’t remind me” as he made his way over to the driver’s side of the vehicle. As he got in, he rolled down the window on the passenger’s side, leaning over to keep talking.

“If you need a lift back to Tokyo let me know,” she nodded at him, “and if he gets too much to handle, punch him. He loves it.”

“You mean _you_ love it.”

“Same difference.” The engine purred to life, and Iwaizumi clicked his seatbelt on.

“Drive safe.”

“Always do.”

She waved one last time as the window rolled back up, and watched as the silver sedan pulled out of the long hotel driveway and disappeared into the main road.

A moment passed before she waved over one of the valet parkers and asked the fasted way to get to Onomichi Station.

 

* * *

 

He would never understand destination weddings.

Sure, there was something charming about being unique and having a wedding somewhere where your friend’s wouldn’t was enticing, but it was just a wedding and a ceremony – a show, of all things. But destination tended to mean a change of scenery – that is to say, _anywhere outside of your country._

Regardless, he still found himself waiting for his ride to the hotel at Onomichi at the now empty station front. He had only just arrived, but after the last minute attempt to pull himself together for the trip, he was ready to pass out on a nice bed and relax for the next few days.

Not a moment too soon, a black taxi pulled up, and in the backseat of the cabin was a familiar silhouette of the culprit who invited him. It pulled to a stop, and the driver immediately hopped out to greet him and gesture for his luggage, which was promptly placed in the boot and locked away. The driver motioned for the backdoor, but he beat him too it, sliding in and shutting the door behind him as he took his place next to-

“Glad you arrived in one piece.”

He frowned. “Sounds like you weren’t exactly expecting me so put together.”

“I mean, it would have been _a lot_ funnier if you weren’t.”

“How mean, Writer-chan~”

(Name) smiled at his retort, rolling her shoulders and relaxing further into the plush cushion of the seat. Oikawa clicked his seatbelt into place as the taxi lurched forward, and soon they were left to the silence of each other’s company.

He couldn’t help but look at her curiously, the one question that had been on his mind for the entire train ride to the tiny city made itself loud and clear.

_Why me?_

“You weren’t waiting long, were you?”

Oikawa stirred and watched as (Name) took to staring out the window. He shook his head. “Just got in, but I’m exhausted.” She nodded at his words. “How’d you get in?”

“I arrived a while along, I ran into Iwaizumi in Okayama while I was picking up some decorations. He dropped me off.”

The name rung out, clear as a bell, and it dawned on him that he still had not talked to Iwa-chan since the confession all those months ago. Their last point of talking was from his best friend himself, who had texted a simple “Good luck” before his first match the week before.

He refrained from asking how the man was doing in the presence of the driver.

 

* * *

 

When they arrived back at the hotel, Oikawa noticed that though the lobby was relatively empty, there was still a suitcase waiting to be dropped off to a room near the elevators.

“You checked in, right?” He looked down to the writer, who was continuing to greet the staff that loitered around.

“Just about,” she nodded, casting a curious glance at him, “just go check in.”

He paused in the doorway for a second before nodding, eyes slightly narrowed as she watched her for a specific reaction.

She remained stoic.

Check in went smoothly; the concierge was polite and remained professional at the sight of two celebrities standing in his lobby, and handed Oikawa the key card with a polite farewell of thanks.

Oikawa turned, noting that (Name) had gone to stand near the elevator, smiling politely at the bellhop who was loading both his suitcase and the mysterious one left idly by into the it. He proceeded to hold the doors open, dipping his head profusely at something she had said. She lifted her hand and waved it dismissively, laughing ever so slightly.

“I’ll be sure to pass on the message, ma’am!” The man looked between the two of them and dipped his head again. “Enjoy your stay.”

The pair stepped in and the doors closed. He pressed his floor number, 3. She didn’t make a move.

“So why didn’t you ask Iwa-chan to escort you?”

“Trust me, I regret not inviting him.” She replied, and Oikawa felt a pang of hurt appear in his chest. “But he had work. And the instructions from the Bride were to bring someone ‘easily likeable.”

The brunet looked at her confusedly. “And you chose _me_?”

“I originally chose _Eikichi_.” The writer mused. Oikawa recognised the name briefly – that mangaka she had mentioned once before, a co-worker and colleague or something. “But I knew he was busy with work and I had to think this over a little more.”

The doors dinged open on to the second floor and an older couple attempted to get in. When they noticed the tight squeeze their luggage had created, they stepped back out apologetically and determined to wait for the next on.

When the elevator doors closed, Oikawa spoke again. “Enlighten me.”

“Makoto’s sister is probably dating someone as hot-headed as she is. This Kenta Best Man dude is no doubt a little rough around the edges himself since he’s dating Yankee Yuki, and _she_ is not the smoothest chick I know either. You can’t put a really likeable person around people like _that_ ; there’s too much tension, not enough stability. And nice people tend to like it when there is even footing to stand on.  You need someone who can fake being likeable so well that they make people _believe_ it,” she shrugged and cast him a brief glance, “and I don’t know anyone else who can play the field as well as I can.”

He smirked at her. “Was that a _compliment_ , Writer-chan?”

She rolled her eyes. “Lord knows that no one in their right mind would stroke your ego, Limpy. Consider it an admission.”

_Admission of what?_

Oikawa blinked, the action punctuated by ding signalling their arrival. As the doors slid open, he grabbed his suitcase and lugged it out. From the corner of his eye, he caught her doing the same thing, pulling her bag just outside of the elevator and giving it enough room to close behind her.

He raised a brow at her curiously. “You alright?”

“Fantastic.” She dusted her hands on her pants and extended her free one out to him. “Give me your room key.”

There was a moment of stunned silence.

“I _never-_ ”

“I’m swapping rooms with you, dumbass.” She interjected before the snarky comment could come out of him. “Every member of the bridal party got set up with nice rooms on the top floor. They have a nice view of the sea.” (Name) rummaged in her back pocket for her own key card and held it out for the setter to retrieve. “Room 507 is yours for the week. Consider this my thank you for doing this last minute.”

Sure enough, the plastic card that was held aloft between them displayed the numbers **507** on the bottom, the logo of the hotel embossed on the upper half and the colours swirled down into the white section that would be inserted into the lock. Oikawa looked at it, then to (Name), then back to the card and her again.

“You’re kidding.”

“Trust me, the view is worth it, and technically you aren’t paying for it because both your room and my room is covered.”

“By who?”

She shrugged. “Who else?”

His frown deepened.

“Again,” she sighed, “consider this my giving thanks for helping me out this one time.”

Oikawa narrowed his eyes and sighed, before replacing her card with the one the concierge had given him. A triumphant grin adorned her face as she wheeled the suitcase to the door further down the hall and scanned the card.

“I didn’t think that would work, who knew you were so strapped for cash?” She teased over her shoulder.

Oikawa pushed his suitcase closer to the wall and abandoned it, choosing to follow her down to what was once his suite.

“Y’know what _would_ return the favour-”

“If you so much as even _look_ at that mini-bar-”

“Go sight-seeing with me.”

(Name) paused in the middle of the doorway, back flush against the door as she pulled the suitcase in. Oikawa reached over her head and held it open with one hand, letting her manoeuvre in further.

“I haven’t been on a proper holiday in months.” He admitted, “Onomichi is pretty decent… I wouldn’t mind the company.”

“You mean wouldn’t mind having someone pay for _everything_.” She retorted with a knowing look. He raised his hands in defeat.

“I mean, I would greatly appreciate a Sugar Daddy. I’m strapped for cash since my cut from the team’s Pocari Sweat deal has yet to appear in my bank account.”

She pushed her suitcase over, and it fell with a dull thud on to the floor.

“If I have time,” she turned back to face him, “from the madness that is wedding planning, I’ll let you know.”

He removed his hand from the door, letting it swing shut ever so slightly and stop once it ran into her back. “Sure thing,” he simpered, “but the longer you make me wait the more likely the mini-bar will look even more inviting.”

The writer pulled a face before stepping out of the door’s path, letting it swing shut and separate the two of them. He lingered for a moment before retreating back into the lift and pressing the button for the thirtieth floor.

As soon as the elevator doors closed, he slapped his palm to his forehead, letting his index finger and thumb pinch the bridge of his nose in annoyance. “Moron,” he grumbled, “absolute _moron_.”

 

* * *

 

Two days before the wedding, (Name) found herself free from the responsibilities of the Maid of Honour and not a lot of plans to fill the space.

So she took to her unfortunate guest’s previous offer, and joined him outside of the hotel in the mid-morning.

“Onomichi is boring.” The brunet whined, not bothering to look up from his phone as she approached. “There are just temples or museums.”

“There’s an inland sea that cuts through the _entire_ city.” She supplied.

“I’m an _indoor_ athlete Writer-chan, I don’t do the nature thing.”

She blinked. “Aren’t you from-”

“ _I don’t do the nature thing_.”

“Well _you’ve_ dragged me out from my solo day, you decide,” she tugged her beige coat closer to her body, “so long as it’s warm.”

The pair began to walk, following the slight contours of the hill to get to the main road.

Silence permeated around them, only being broken by the sounds of daily life and other tourists bustling around them.

And it was then that they both realised how different talking to each other was during the day as opposed to the night. Perhaps it was the charm of the balconies, or maybe the cover of night that brought the ease with which they could talk. Regardless, there was an unspoken tension that existed between them, an uncertainty concerning the process of Regular Discussion and Small Talk™.

Because that’s what they needed, she thought, in order to make whatever lie they needed to spout believable to the other attendants they couldn’t be that distant from each other.

But how does one gain regular civility with someone who they only talk to when there somewhat inebriated?

A hand wrapped around the curve of her elbow, tugging her body towards the right-hand side and redirecting her route towards the path that curved across the hillside as opposed to the one straight down it.

“There’s a Literature Museum further up.” Oikawa mused, eyes still trained on to his phone screen as he spoke. (Name) caught the mischievous glint in his eye.

“I’m not gonna be displayed there.”

“You never know Writer-chan~”

“When was the last time you have ever been to a museum, let alone a _literature_ one?”

“A while, but I have high hopes that an unflattering picture of your face is gonna be smack bang in the middle of the wall.” He declared, shoving his phone away into his coat pocket and raising his head back up, nose high in the air as if he were sniffing out their destination.

The writer rolled her eyes. The setter didn’t let go of her arm.

 

* * *

 

To her relief and Oikawa’s dismay, she wasn’t mentioned at all within the Literature Museum.

The features, as she had predicted, were founded upon the lives of the artists native to Onomichi, as well as the ones who had loved the city enough to dedicate their works to it. Bookended by the homes of Kenkichi Nakamura and Naoya Shiga (names she had heard of but never looked into until that day), the self-guided tour was slow, but the silence was filled with her companion’s disgruntlement at the fact _she_ was not featured anywhere.

(“I haven’t ever written about Onomichi.” She answered as they left the Literature Park towards the Museum’s exit. “Not my style.”

“Make it your style.” He retorted. “Cause I really wanted to make fun of you today.”

“This was not include in the reimbursement package I offered.”

“For how cheap entry was, I assumed it was _included_.”)

Amidst the ramblings of the man, they returned to the foyer of the main museum building, and her eyes landed on a display she had completely missed in their entrance.

A wall of small snippets of poetry, illustrated with simple charcoal sketches here and there to reflect the pieces displayed for the viewer. Her eyes followed the stanzas up and down the wall, and it wasn’t till she reached the end of the first poem that she went back to check the writer’s name.

Her mouth went dry–

“Let’s go Writer-chan,” Oikawa tugged at her elbow again, childish and pouty, “I’m hungry.”

(Name) nodded dumbly, eyes still trained onto the wall as they left it behind.

 

* * *

 

It was a little after two when they found a suitable restaurant, and it was then (Name) learnt another truth of the man she was accompanying.

Not only was he annoying when bored out of his mind; Oikawa Tooru was a _food stealer_.

And a _damn good one_ at that.

They had eaten together before, formally and informally, and she should have realised back then.

If her eyes wavered away for even a second, the setter somehow swiped something off her plate. The entrees were fine – they were _meant_ to be shared – but the fact he had the audacity (the surprising _skill_ ) to cut _whole pieces_ of her okonomiyaki pancake impressed and confused her greatly. No deterrent stopped him; no amount of thwacking his hands with her own, or her chopsticks, no amount of shin kicks, not even the condiment barrier she had made that almost got them kicked out the restaurant had been enough.

Where this side of him had been when she took him to dinner for his birthday was beyond her. She could only imagine the frustration Makki and Mattsun would have faced in their youth.

But she persevered, and relented, all in the same hour, because the small part of her that was impressed had admittingly found it endearing as well. That, she thought, and the fact that she did owe him one for the favour she sprung upon him so suddenly.

‘Baby steps,’ she reminded herself, ‘because neither of us are good with leaps and bounds.’

 

* * *

 

By four, the sun had set, leaving the pair walking alongside the Seto Sea in the fading orange afterglow.

“You never did tell me how you got the approval to disappear so easily.”

“How do you know I disappeared?”

“I refuse to believe professional athletes don’t train as if it’s breathing.”

The setter shrugged, using his spoon to swipe a small section of gelato from her paper bowl and shovelled it into his mouth. “I have my ways.”

“No one knows you’re here, do they?”

“Not at all, no.”

(Name) gave him a pointed look. “You had every reason to say ‘no’, y’know?”

Oikawa thoughts faltered for a moment, just one moment, because she had a point. (Name) tended to have a point – a truth he was admittedly disappointed in realising the more time they spent together – because he really didn’t need to agree.

Mattsun had more stakes in her personal life than he did, as did Makki-Makki. Even _Iwa-chan_ was a more viable choice; he would have openly accepted his best friend to be her plus one in these circumstances.

So what _had_ told him to say yes? Was it impulse? Was it boredom? Was it spite?

“I know,” he hummed, turning his head to the left to face the steady, rippling water, “but by that logic I had every reason to say ‘yes’, right?”

The writer didn’t respond, and when he looked back at her she wore a soft smile on her features.

“Maybe…” She murmured. She blinked, then held her dessert out; an open invitation to take what he pleased.

That was another thing he had learnt; Writer-chan was _very good_ at talking without talking. Body language, non-verbal cues, and simple glances were enough to convey the slightest meaning and saying. Annoying though it may be, Oikawa understood that it was just _her_ way of living; that though silence could be stifling, the aura of silence she emitted was oddly comforting, as if constructed to be that way.

He carved a section out with his spoon and scraped it off into his own bowl. Silent. Just like his tour-guide-not-a-tour-guide.

The only sounds around them were the crashing of steadying waves from the Seto Sea.

 

* * *

 

They didn’t see each other until the morning of the wedding.

It was the first Sunday of the month, denoted to be a day of luck and posterity – perfect for a wedding. The traditional Shinto ceremony happened the day before, featuring only the very basics of formality that were required of Makoto and Ichiro under the guises of their parents and sponsors. The bride had been calm – to her the Shinto ceremony was for her parents. The Western one was for _her_.

(Name) had been up at the ass-crack of dawn, running back and forth between Makoto’s hotel room and the infamous Ribbon Chapel on the grounds of the Bella Vista. It was an intricate and delicate balancing act of calming the bride-to-be and ensuring decorations had arrived and were being set up appropriately. The ceremony and reception were only arranged to account for the 70 total guests in attendance, but that didn’t mean the stress was not slowly crushing the woman by the shoulders.

By eleven, she and Kenta were standing at the entrance of the Ribbon Chapel greeting guests on behalf of the couple. The rest of the bridal party were in charge of guiding guests to seats, and performing final rounds of the space to ensure everything was in their exact positions.

Oikawa arrived twenty minutes before the ceremony was scheduled to begin, still in awe at the marvel that was the venue. The Ribbon Chapel was a modernist fever dream; it’s silhouette was shaped by the two spiral stairways that met central on the roof, imposing and yet complementary to the panoramic view of the sea not far from the cliffside. The walls were windows, streaming in the soon-to-be-midday sunlight and refracting tiny rainbows onto the light wood floor. As he stepped into the foyer, Oikawa realised that one stairway had been supporting the other, slowly forming into one ribbon as it coiled to the roof.

The truest symbolism of marriage he had seen that day.

He wondered if it had anything to do with (Name).

“You’re late.” A voice tutted from behind him.

“I came with twenty minutes to spare, that’s not late.”

Oikawa watched the writer roll her eyes at him, the faint shadow of dark circles peaked out from underneath the layer of makeup that adorned her face.

“What’s the plan, boss?” He asked, stepping a little closer so he could drop the volume of his voice.

“You have to start mingling with the other dates.” She scrunched up her nose. “The celebration doesn’t start till five, and then the after party isn’t until seven so you’ll all be keeping each other company while the bridal party does whatever the fuck we’re meant to be doing during that time – photos, I think.” The writer looked over to the troublemakers she had been in charge of monitoring. “Just be your fake self and we’ll survive.”

“Distract, flirt, and charm.” He hummed. “Now you’re speaking my language.”

(Name) lifted her hand and patted his forearm.

“Thank you, again.” She smiled. “I owe you.”

He shrugged. “Gotta be useful somehow, don’t I?”

She widened her grin again and then turned left him, stalking over to the Best Man to finalise the entrance order with the wedding planner.

The brunet watched her for a few minutes, pulling his lips into a tight line.

The words died in the back of his throat. He’d talk to her at another time.

 

* * *

 

The exhaustion hit her in waves, unrelenting and annoying ones that made her dread the thought of ever being a part of a wedding at any point in the future.

She and Kenta had strayed away from the bridal party once more to greet guests in place of the newlyweds. The pair had been keeping each other sane as the hours continued, in between the photo shoot and errands the couple forced them to run over while they rested in the back room of the Bella Vista banquet hall.

The writer had been relieved of her shift at the entrance when Kenta jogged over to her, looking haggard with his own set of darkened circles. “I can’t handle Ichiro’s parents,” he murmured as he steered the woman away from the doors, “it’s your turn to mingle.”

“I hate people.” She argued.

“So do I, but it’s your turn.”

(Name) raised her hands in defeat, shrugging his hands off of her shoulders. “You’re going first with speeches, then.”

“Ride or Die, (Surname).” He called out to her. She waved a hand over her shoulder and weaved through the crowds of guests.

As she did her rounds, (Name) had begun to more decisively organised the guests into categories: Family, Colleagues, Strangers, High School, Ichiro’s Side. The wide spectrum of individuals meant a prolonged falsehood of politeness needed to be maintained on her part; the last time she smiled for such an extended amount of time was September, and even two months felt like an eternity.

And then she saw it, a familiar silhouette from March donning a dark blue pant suit with sharp fox-like features framed by a loose chocolate coloured waves. (Name) tilted her head, taking note of the woman standing next to the all-too recognisable individual before she set off to approach them because-

“Honda, I didn’t see you at the ceremony.”

Honda Natsuki turned around, eyes wide from the sudden interruption made by the writer. (Name) trained a small grin on her face.

“How have you been?”

The editor blinked, somewhat startled by the decorum suddenly used by her old high school classmate. It ebbed away slowly, leaving the usual confidence (Name) had come to know and appreciate from the woman.

“I’m good.. We got greeted by that Kenta guy and then we were put up in one of the boxes above the hall. ” She answered, pulling at her fitted jacket. The woman next to her stood ramrod straight. “Oh, yeah (Surname), this is my girlfriend Megumi. We work together at Emerald. Megumi, this is-”

“(Surname) (Name), right? You wrote ‘Dragon Tears’?”

She shrugged. “Technically yes, but today I’m the unfortunate soul that plays Maid of Honour.” The (h/c)-haired woman extended her hand out for Natsuki’s partner to shake. She returned it happily, a grip that was a little too tight, a little to sweaty.

“I loved ‘Dragon Tears’, but after reading ‘Observations’ I can’t think of a way you could possibly top that. I’m _so_ glad you returned to your original style, even if it’s not the same form – it’s really impressive how timeless they’re becoming!”

The writer tried not to sigh. It wasn’t the first conversation she had that day about her works, and a part of her knew it wouldn’t be the last, but she would rather talk about something other than her on the day of her best friend’s wedding.

She looked over to Natsuki, who averted her gaze elsewhere while her girlfriend fawned.

(Name) waved her hands, “My work is mediocre at best, the publicity exaggerates it entirely.” She straightened her back out. “Now if you wanted timeless you need to go to the Literature Museum here in Onomichi.”

Natsuki’s eyes widened and her head whipped around.

“This place is so beautiful that writers and artists constantly allude to the seas and hillsides; trust me, some of the things you’ll read there will overshadow my works entirely. Is it your first time in Onomichi?”

Megumi shook her head, “I’m originally from here, I just moved to Osaka for work. I haven’t been down the Literature Path in years, though,” she turned to her girlfriend eagerly, “we should go before we leave! You _have_ to see some of the houses that are being preserved!”

When (Name) looked back to the woman, she had a dazed and distant look in her eyes. “Yeah, we should…” She coughed, shaking herself out of her reverie ever so slightly. “Can you give me and (Surname) a minute, Megumi? We just need to… to _talk_ between us.”

The air tensed around them, but Megumi seemed unfazed, as if she had grown used to breathing in stagnant air in her lifetime. There was a moment of hesitancy, before she nodded and excused herself from the group.

“Are they really there… The poems?”

Natsuki’s voice was barely a whisper above the noise surrounding them, and (Name) almost had to lean in to hear her correctly.

“She warms me like a summer breeze, she holds me like the cold nights. Ethereal is her middle name, and her beauty runs to antiquity. Pearl of Onomichi, Light of My Life.”

The editor pulled her lips into a tight line as the writer recited the poetry she had red no less than two days before.

“It’s a small exhibit just inside the entrance.” She hummed, smiling every now and then to passing guests. “I didn’t know you published.”

“Kadokawa signed me not long after your anthology got dropped… We published mine a few months after, but you were still reeling in success from the Naoki that it fell under the radar.” Natsuki murmured, arms wrapping around her midsection.

“They’re good Natsuki, like, _really_ good.”

She scoffed. “You’re just saying that. I haven’t changed since high school.”

“You say that as if I _ever_ read what you wrote back then.”

The woman froze. “You…didn’t?”

“I don’t think Teen Natsuki would have appreciated me snooping.” She turned back to face her head on. “Besides, I wasn’t focused on being publicised so I didn’t care who read my stuff, but _you_ were. Now that you are it only seemed fair that I read your work now.”

Silence swirled around them, only to be broken by the awkward cough of the writer.

“It feels good, right?” Her voice grew softer. “To be published after working so hard for so long… It must be rewarding, I can’t even imagine.”

Natsuki shrugged. “Yeah… I guess it was nice to see my name on the cover of a book for once.”

“You made it.”

“Like you could call anything I’ve done ‘making it’; Honda Natsuki published her poetry anthology about someone she deeply cares about, how innovative.” She scoffed sarcastically. “It’s not like (Surname) (Name) did that first on a mainstream circuit about the dude she’s obviously in love with.”

(Name) felt the blood freeze inside of her veins, and the last breath she had gulped down into her lungs

“It’s him, right?”

Natsuki jutted her chin over to where Oikawa stood, surrounded by the other guests that he would be sitting with for the remainder of the evening. (Name) followed her gaze; no sign of tension or disgruntlement radiated from the group, which in itself was a good sign.

“Flashy dude in the grey three piece keeping the peace around the two people who were obviously dating at some point. That’s the guy right?” (Name)’s silence spurred her on. “S’pretty obvious, bet you didn’t tell him either.”

The writer bit the inside of her cheek, lips pulled taut into a line as the humdrum continued to waft over them in steady waves. Denial wasn’t the most untrue reaction she could have in that moment, but in the face of someone like Honda Natsuki – someone who was far too like her to look beyond the subtle falsehoods she could plant – even the most minute detail could arise in failure.

So she stayed quiet, if but for a minute, before she veered the topic of discussion away from texts and quotes and muses.

“I was a real bitch in high school, Natsuki-”

“You weren’t the only one-”

“And I’m still sort of a bitch now-”

“Again, not the only one-”

“But I’ve been thinking about it, and I don’t like the way I treated you back then – acting like you weren’t worth my time and shit… And I don’t think I can keep moving on and getting better until we acknowledge the bullshit we’ve been skirting around for the past who knows how long.”

The woman in blue frowned deeply. “I’m not ready to forgive you.”

“I’m not asking you to forgive me.” The (h/c)-haired woman replied. “I’m just saying we should do the whole ‘Forget’ part of ‘Forgive and Forget’ first, and then strategically remember to ‘Forgive’ when it’s convenient for us.”

The faint shadow of a smile appeared on her face, amused.

“That’d work.”

“Good.”

The two women continued to stare at each other, the air growing colder the longer they prolonged talking.

Natsuki spoke up first.

“You had a point… Back in March…” She cleared her throat. “About success and meaning. I didn’t really get it until Megumi but, uh, yeah…”

“Good to know,” (Name) answered quietly, “glad I can help.”

“Still not forgiving you.”

“Glad to hear it.”

The editor sighed and threaded her fingers through her hair.

“Well, I better get my girlfriend.” She clenched her fists in the fabric of her dress pants. “I’ll see you at whatever function comes next, (Surname).”

She nodded and stepped back, giving her a little more room for her retreat. “Have a good night Honda.”

 

* * *

 

The speeches were scheduled towards the end of the ceremony, and would lead directly into the after party for the friends of the newlyweds to mingle and relax, without the fear of being judged by the older generations who would surely vacate the venue early.

Kenta and (Name) had done three rounds of rock-paper-scissors to decide who went first. She lost, but the matches went to waste when another groomsman reminded the sandy-haired man that he would be speaking after a bestselling author, and would “probably look like an idiot in comparison”.

Kenta opted to speak first.

And after the rollercoaster of emotions served through brief vignettes and memories about the couple, it was (Name)’s turn to speak.

She hadn’t realised how sweaty her palms were until she took the microphone from her male counterpart. With a shaky breath she introduced herself before reciting the speech she had finalised the evening before.

“I’d like to think that I’m decent with words.” A murmur of laughter rippled through the ballroom. “But now that I have to _say_ those words out loud, I’m not so sure about that… And the dread of writing a speech about Makoto and Ichiro seemed impossible; because love is hard, and how am I meant to describe it when I don’t have it? Then… It kind of dawned on me that everything I want to say about my best friend was already written down, and it encapsulates everything I want to say tonight;

“You put your faith in my judgment  
I put my heart in your hands  
And wait for something  
Akin to answers or explanations

“Always waiting  
Like flowers wait for rain  
Or a speaker waits for silence  
Amidst the sounds of Life

“I think I will always find you  
Or the way back to your heart  
Like a familiar road  
Or an oasis in the desert

“For even when we are miles apart  
I know you will stand by me  
Like the cliff-face against the ocean tide,  
Unyielding

“And I trust that I will  
Find you  
And you will  
Find Me

“Like you always have  
Our lives are silver –  
Because pure gold is weak  
And bronze is not beautiful

“So I will love you  
And the love you give me  
Will suffice  
Until I can love myself again

“Love is the Biggest Game of Hide and Seek you don’t give consent to playing and yet somehow devote most of your life to. It’s patience and trust; patience that the Right Person will find you, and trust that said Person won’t forget you. And I’m glad you two found each other… We all deserve happiness, and I wish you two all the best in the future that you weave together.”

She raised her glass as a toast, and immediately became engulfed in a tight embrace by a shaky Makoto. (Name) laughed and wrapped the arm that held the microphone around the woman. The other hand placed the glass down and reached over to pat Ichiro on his shoulder. The ravenette mumbled something into her ear that she couldn’t understand.

All other sound had faded away the moment her eyes met his, as they caught the teasing glint that reflected the lights above him.

 

* * *

 

Oikawa found his way to her mid-way through the after party, following the faint sounds of sobbing from the bride that reverberated above the sounds of the music. He pulled himself out of the crowd, just in time to see the groom lead his wife away, hand on the small of her back and laughing at something the writer had said in farewell.

He swallowed the lump in his throat and moved closer. When he was within earshot he spoke, confident, “Cute speech.”

“Thanks.”

“Who’d you plagiarise?”

“A poet by the name of Fuck You.”

“Oh I’ve read their works ‘Eat Shit’ and ‘Piss Off’. Got any other recommendations for me, I’d love to expand my library.”

“You can’t read, don’t lie to me.”

(Name) turned her head just in time to watch the offended pout appear on his face, comically exaggerated and similar to that of a wilting flower in the oddest of ways.

“How has your night been? Keeping the peace like I asked.”

Oikawa stood upright again, shoving one hand into his pocket while the other dangled limply by his side. “Fuyutsuki-san wasn’t kidding when she said there was a possibility of World War 3.” (Name) huffed. “But I handled it; they’re successfully avoiding each other and anyone who talks to me, which means I’ve done enough to deter them from trying to recruit people to their campaigns for revenge.”

“They just need to survive being near each other for another hour or something and then they can plot murder outside of the fancy schmancy resort.” She turned to look at Yankee Yuki, who uncharacteristically hung off of Kenta’s arm. Across the way was Harumi and Jiro, who spoke in hushed tones while they danced in a small corner of the dance floor.

“So am I off the clock, technically, since you don’t have any more Bridal Party duties for the evening?” He asked, ducking his head down slightly to watch her reaction. Though the lights were dimmed, he still caught the curve of her lips.

“I guess, if it means I don’t have to pay you overtime.”

“Eh, no, I still need an insurance payout. Yankee Yuki has a good left hook.” He rubbed his right shoulder, surely nursing a bruise. “She’s a Hitter, by the way. Learnt that after I told a joke before the ceremony.”

“Good to know that I should avoid being funny, not like I was to begin with.”

The EDM faded out steadily, being replaced with a soft melody that scream slow dance. The lights dimmed further, and the remaining couples began to filter on to the dancefloor, assuming their positions for what could only be the next few songs.

Oikawa exhaled shakily before he stepped in front of the writer, hand extended out to her. She raised a brow at him.

“Dance with me?”

“That wasn’t included in the package I purchased for Last Minute Date.”

“Consider it a free trial, then.”

“I’ll decline.”

“Indulge me.”

There was a brief flicker of light in her eyes, fading away almost as quickly as it appeared. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up, and before he had time to question it, she already placed her hand in his. She squeezed, a silent “Lead the way”.

So he did, walking backwards until they were on the outskirts of the dance floor.

The seconds stretched into infinity as (Name) lifted her hands up to settle on his shoulders while his own were position above the curve of her hips.

Oikawa wasn’t perturbed – he hadn’t been overly concerned with the concept of chemistry in his life (again, some things were more in Tetsu-chan’s wheelhouse). Holding her like this, dancing like this, felt like he had been holding himself. There was nothing grandiose about being there with her in that moment.

There wasn’t electricity when the palms of his hands rested against her. Popular culture really fucked his expectations over with that.

But rather than electricity or lightning or indigestion or whatever, he felt nothing.

Not exactly nothing; there was _something_ , but it felt like it had always been there, as if this sensation of _something_ wasn’t necessarily new now that they were so close to each other. And the something, he determined, was the very heightened awareness of _her_.

The make-up that had been applied that morning was disappearing into the air, as if evaporating like dew drops in the spring. The faint remnants of highlight on her cheeks did not shine as brightly as her eyes did. The fire was there again, burning bright in the darkness and drawing him further and further until he saw beyond it.

The sadness Bokuto could not erase.

The awkwardness he had caused between them all those nights ago.

Perhaps why there was still distance, why there was still a rift that restricted them from having progress. Not that he wanted progress. Maybe. Probably.

But the breath hitched in his throat as he kept staring at her. This was something he had to fix – that Tarou-chan _couldn’t_ fix – and it filled him with this odd sense of pride and victory that felt too right to be wrong.

He breathed out deeply, expelling the trapped air from his lungs.

“I’m sorry.”

(Name) furrowed her brows together.

“This is the third time you’re apologising to me.”

“Did you need a fourth?”

“Why?”

He sighed and leaned a little closer, lifting his shoulder in a half-hearted manner.

“Cause I mean it this time.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Do you?”

He ducked his head down, letting their eyes rest level with each other’s. Noses bumped as they swayed, and Oikawa kept staring at her. Unblinking. Unnerved. There was nothing left to hide from her, and if this was the only way to fix her then pride be damned, he could sacrifice it.

A minute passed.

Then two.

Then three.

And by three and half he was _sure_ she had gotten lost.

But she spoke, softly, averting her gaze as she did.

“You’re good… It’s water under the bridge.”

The brunet raised himself back to his full height, a delicate “Thank you” passed through his lips and settled into her mind.

The song changed into a melody of brass trumpets he heard on a balcony in the distant past. Her lips twitched at the edges as the tune registered in her head. They picked up the pace ever so slightly, still maintain a leisurely sway.

The memories of the song compelled him to move. His muscles wanted to move, to enable his hands to roam up and down the curves and contours of her body, but his mind willed himself to be still. Not the time or place, he reasoned, but _fuck_ if he didn’t do it now then when would he ever get the chance.

He kept staring at her, watching as her gaze danced from side to side as if avoiding his eyes. As they completed a full turn, the setter spotted the few wayward tufts of baby hair that back to fall atop of her forehead.

His body moved on instinct.

That was the lie he had told himself.

Oikawa lifted his hand, letting his fingers brush stray strands of hair away from her face, fingertips barely ghosting over the soft skin of her cheek. And then his hand shook, slowly trailing away from the shell of her ear and coming to rest on the nape of her neck, thumb wedged under the curve of her jaw.

His hands were always warm, but her neck was twice as hot. He stopped himself from flinching away from the sudden increase in temperature. (Name) looked at him again. She didn’t move away.

“You look nice…” He murmured, listening faintly to the slow melody playing in the background.

“You don’t look half bad yourself.” She replied. “How many suits do you even own?”

“Let’s just say I can’t get invited to anywhere fancy for a while.”

An airy laugh wafted over him, and it brought a small smile out on to his own features.

They stayed joined like that until the guest numbers began to dwindle. In the back of his mind, Oikawa swore he heard the rational sides of himself warn him of the dangers of indulgence.

 

* * *

 

Half an hour before eleven they stood outside of (Name)’s hotel room – Oikawa’s original residency for the week.

(Name) pulled her key card out from the small clutch dangling from her shoulder, and rested her left hand on the door knob.

“Did you…” She glanced over at the setter while she swiped the card. “Did you wanna come inside?”

_Holy fuuuuuuu-_

“It’s late.”

“Indeed.”

“We both have things to do tomorrow.”

“I’m aware.”

Before he could reply or move, (Name)’s phone blared obnoxiously from inside the bag. She frowned and rummaged around for it before checking the notification. Her nose scrunched towards the top and she exhaled a deep sigh.

“Rain check?”

“Makoto’s forgotten something in the ballroom, wants me to drop it off and then oversee the clean-up for her.”

Oikawa tilted his head; the poor perks of being Maid of Honour.

“Want a hand?”

“I’ll be fine, you have an early train out.”

“So do you.”

“I’ll be fine though.”

He hesitated but nodded, moving aside so they could walk towards the elevator together.

For the second time that evening, his body moved on its own accord.

The setter stopped her as she reached over to press the down button, grabbing her elbow the same way he had done earlier that week.

“Hey.”

“Yeah?”

He let his hand trail down the length of her forearm before pausing at her wrist. A part of him yelled to lift her hand, to be the Charming Oikawa Tooru from high school and make her swoon since that’s what his body and mind had been telling him to do all evening. But he thought against it, letting his thumb rub small circles onto her soft skin.

Oikawa swore he felt her shudder.

“Give me a call if you need help, yeah”

She nodded. “You’ve got it, hot shot.”

The elevator dinged and the door’s slid open. He let her go and the same time she slid her arm out of his grasp in order to enter the metal box. With one final smile, the doors shut, and she was gone.

He didn’t know how long he stood there for, but from the way his heart was still thundering in his chest he reasoned it wasn’t long enough.

 

* * *

 

(Name) never made it to the ballroom, not when Natsuki had grabbed her by the upper arm and pulled her into the side corridor of the main foyer floor.

“What the f-”

“ _This_ is what’s been blowing up while we’ve been here fucking about.” Natsuki whispered harshly, showing the writer her phone. “Everyone at work is freaking out about it, people are looking at your work more closely.”

Oikawa and her, the night of the party back at the Cerulean. A series of photos were displayed on the screen, from familiar paparazzi style ones as they exited the convenience store to sly shots on a grainy camera from inside the event itself.

And then there were photos from that evening, even blurrier shots of them dancing in dimmed lighting. But it was them, no one could confuse the coiffed hair of the Ryuujin Nippon superstar

Her mouth went acrid. She tasted the air, and it tasted like dread.

“Are you guys-?”

“No.” (Name) interjected. “We’re…”

Natsuki didn’t say anything. Instead she locked her phone and replaced it into the inner pocket of her suit jacket.

“Be honest with me, as both an agent to a client and a colleague to a colleague.” They locked eyes. “How bad do think this could get?”

“For both your careers? Hardly. For your ‘friendship’,” Natsuki shrugged. “Depends on if he ever reads your book.”

“That’s lucky, he can’t read.” The statement, though sarcastic, was laced with an undertone of ‘what if’ that concerned her, if by just a small amount.

Natsuki frowned before slowly lifting her hand to the woman’s shoulder. As the palm made contact with the fabric and skin, (Name) sighed and pressed her free hand into her face.

Fucked.

Absolutely fucked.

 

* * *

 

It wasn’t until ten the following morning that Oikawa had felt the talons of worry attempt to sink themselves into his shoulders.

He and (Surname) were heading back to Tokyo on the same train, scheduled to leave at eleven. It hadn’t been a part of the official plans, a more spur of the moment decision caused by events from a few days prior, but he was sure that Writer-chan was a woman of her word when it came to these types of promises.

She had held through with the sight-seeing; what was to say that she would bail on a simple train ride home?

Not that _this_ was a promise or anything.

Not like he wanted to spend more time with her after the night before.

Definitely not.

If anything, Oikawa wanted to pretend that the past few days hadn’t happened. That maybe the things he had said and did were mere civilities that were long overdue in the course of their awkwardly confusing existence. That he had said yes to coming to Fuyutsuki-san’s wedding because in some weird twist of guilt he felt he owed her (for what he wasn’t sure since he had also apologised to her _again_ ), and now they were even because of it.

That’s what kept him in the lobby for most of the morning, with sly glances over to the elevators to see if she would reveal herself to him. It wasn’t because maybe, just maybe, he was starting to hypothetically _enjoy_ being in her presence - it was anything _but_ that.

When half-past rolled around, Oikawa’s patience reached the end of its length and he sought to investigate.

He approached the front desk with confidence and asked about the guest, only to be met with a pitiful gaze from the concierge.

“(Surname)-sensei completed her early checkout at four, sir. Unfortunately she did not leave a message for you.”

And that was all he needed before he began to pull himself together and drag his belongings from the hotel lobby in the direction of Onomichi Station. A valet tried to wave him a taxi but he ignored it because not even a taxi would get him to the station on time, and he needed the fresh air to think about everything.

First - he didn’t care about her or her well being, he cared more about the fact he had been left high and dry by someone as flaky as she now seemed to be. Here he was, being nice and cooperative and vaguely _genuine_ over the past week and there she was, being an _ass_ in finish off what had been a decent period of time together.

Not _together_ together, but together in the loosest terms of friendship.

Acquaintance ship.

Definitely not anything more than that.

So what was it that made her leave him high and dry. Ditching was, from what he had come to know, uncharacteristic of the writer.

 _Running_ , however, was par to the course.

But that begged the question as to what she was specifically running _from_?

It couldn’t have been him - he _swore_ it wasn’t something he did. And so that only left two options; (1) something to do with Makki-Makki and her whole Career Thing or (2) she heard the rumour.

If she had heard of the rumour that Tetsu-chan had told him about, she hadn’t made it known. And (Surname) would have _definitely_ brought it up with him if she knew about it. There hadn’t been enough proof, and the photographer credited to the photo that had been provided was considered a less than favourable journalist. So as far as he was concerned, the report died within the same hour it was broadcasted.

Process of elimination stated that it was, then, the first option.

But what were the odds of things having hit the fan without him knowing?

Oikawa frowned and pulled his phone out from inside of his jacket. He pulled up a browser and typed in her name into the search bar. When the page refreshed with results, the first headline staring back at him was a little less than comforting.

He clicked on the article and scrolled, the hastiness of his thumb’s actions worked in tandem with his hurried steps as he continued towards the station in the direction of the shinkansen terminals. He narrowed his eyes, closely examining each photo that dotted the article speculating what was rising between the two.

Which was _nothing_ , definitely nothing.

He pulled his lips together, trapping the bottom one between his teeth. Whoever was feeding these photos to the press was doing a great job at being at literally _every_ event the two seemed to be at. For a moment his stomach dropped with relief; he’d rather people know about these moments than those on the balconies.

In a public photo he could amp up the vibrato, pretend he was stronger than he really was, and deny the reality that they seemed to portray. The balconies were a different story; one where they were both vulnerable and unsure of each other and themselves and didn’t need to hide behind the pretences of their own expectations.

And maybe _that’s_ what really pissed him off about Writer-chan; the idea that she could be both and not face judgement or scrutiny. Her lack of concern for image and consistency made her thrive, and his desire for a concept made him falter. That, and perhaps that maybe he had come to realise that the vulnerability wasn’t conditioned by the space of the balcony, but by her presence.

Which brought forth his own confusion considering the fact every thought he had had in the past twenty-four hours held the underlying desire to _be with her_ in some informal capacity.

It was too much.

He hated it.

And he wanted answers.

Oikawa passed a sign signalling the train station right around the corner, and with increasingly hurried steps he barrelled through the entrance and towards the platform where is train would be departing from soon.

His eyes flicked to the time displayed on his phone before his thumb fumbled around on the screen to his contacts, onto a familiar name that would have the answers he so desperately required. The screen faded to black for a moment and he pressed it to his ear, eagerly waiting for the dial tone to end and-

“Oikawa! I was just gonna call-”

Mattsun sounded happy, far too happy.

“Yeah great, quick question!”

“No, man, you gotta let me go first.”

“No, _me first_ .” He practically growled. “I will gladly listen to _whatever_ you need to say after I-”

“Oiks, Hiro and I got engaged last night.”

The setter faltered ever so slightly in his steps at the revelation, causing him to almost trip up the stairs leading to the platform.

“You _what_ ?” He hissed. “You two finally put a fucking _label_ on what you guys are? And I wasn’t even in the prefecture to know about it!? What the hell guys!?”

“In my honest defense, I wasn’t actually going to tell anyone and just elope and let you all keep guessing… But Hiro likes the ring, and I can’t back out from how happy he is showing people I actually spend money on him.”

A cross between a laugh and sigh escaped his lips, and Mattsun chuckled in response what Oikawa’s obvious exasperation at the situation.

“Am I at least the first one you told?”

“I mean, outside of our parents and family, no. We got hold of Iwaizumi before you.”

Oikawa brought himself to a halt, leaning against the pole that indicated the location of 5th and 6th carriages. He glanced around the platform, no one else in sight.

“Does that mean Makki-Makki’s gotten through to (Name) yet?”

“He’s trying now… Why?”

There was a staticky silence between them. Hushed whispers barely reached the receiver, and Oikawa continued to glance about the area around him.

“You sound concerned, Oiks,” Mattsun’s voice rang clear once more, “that’s not like you.”

The setter let go of his suitcase handle and folded his free arm across his chest. “Yeah, you don’t have to remind me.” He derided. “I’m concerned over the fact that Makki hasn’t-”

“ _You_ went to Makoto’s wedding with (Name)!?”

_Think of Devil and he’ll make himself known._

“Hi Makki, congrats on nabbing the idiot for life. You saw the photos, I assume.” He deadpanned with a roll of his eyes.

“Thanks, I hate him, now _explain_.”

Oikawa huffed, sure that he was on speaker so the couple would converse with him at the same time.

“She asked, I said yes because she said you two were busy and she didn’t want to put anyone else through the drama Fuyutsuki-san had said was arising.” He explained. “The rumours, I can’t explain.”

“You like her!”

“You actually did something nice?”

“I can’t believe you two didn’t tell us that you were at least thinking about being together!”

“But like, how far did you two-”

“ _We aren’t together, you absolute idiots_.”

Again, silence flittered between them, as if waiting for Oikawa to continue.

“I said I’d go out of _obligation_ because I owe her one for how shitty I treated her earlier this year. Those photos prove _nothing_ . And as for the concern - she left me stranded in Onomichi this morning without any word as to what the fuck was going on and I assumed that you two would know where she is so I can interrogate her myself.” He growled out. “I am _tired_ of having her string me along like the she does the rest of Japan. I want answers and I am going to get them.”

Mattsun spoke up for the couple, disbelief lacing his question. “Answers for what?”

For a lot of things, he wanted to tell him.

For why she forgave him last night.

For why she forgave him the second time.

For why she ran.

For why she asked _him_ to the wedding when she was _clearly_ and _very much so obviously_ taken by Bokuto Koutarou.

For why she stopped talking to Bokuto in the first place.

For why she wouldn’t let him live.

For why she kept continuing to mull around in his brain and make him feel weak and stupid and dumb even _off_ of the balconies.

For why she continued to be a pain in her ass even as time passed and he seemed to be moving on.

For why he felt that he had to move on from her in the first place.

For why he couldn’t seem to explain what the absolute _fuck_ was going on in his own head.

His features hardened, and the words came out with a conviction that scared him.

“For everything.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> be honest with me - how much of this did you expect?
> 
> ok as someone who has (1) been a bridesmaid, (2) been a wedding guest, and (3) works for a wedding planner, they're such a pain in the ass to plan irl and virtual what the fuck?  
> but oh man, oh man oh my oh man can u believe its almost over? like?? where did the time go?? also please go look up the Ribbon Chapel, it's so pretty and i did not do it justice with my description like holy shit-
> 
> big big big big big big love and thanks to [Arichuloco](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Arichuloco/profile) who has saved my ass in this chapter and made my life so much easier these days. go give em some love because she deserves it for putting up with me cnsdjfs
> 
>  
> 
> thank you all for the love before exams as well!! now let's see where the rest of this story is going to take us!


	27. Moments in Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I don’t love him.”
> 
> “Who says you have to?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ((so while im only break for the next month I will try my best to finish this thing so we don't have to wait anymore.))

_November, 2018_

Takayama was beautiful in the winter time, with thin sheets of snow piling up on the landscape and leaving the dark green hills damp, amplifying the cold winds that came down from the near mountain peaks.

To (Name), it was especially beautiful because of its lack of media attention, which meant it was the perfect place to lay low.

There had been a last minute vacancy at an inn not too far away from the central square; a small single room on the first floor. She booked it without a second thought and paid for a full week in advance.

The city was still urbanising, spreading slowly from the train station out into the surrounding neighbourhoods. Most businesses, despite being a location off the beaten path, was dedicated to tourists, and although it was one of the peak travelling seasons, the business district was quiet.

(Name) didn’t have the stomach to risk being seen.

She hadn’t left the room all morning. Instead, she requested her room be registered under Do Not Disturb and with no specific name in the system, and they had happily obliged, none the wiser to her turmoil. And so there she sat, on her fourth mug of instant coffee mulling over the events of the last five days.

Her body and mind had regressed to Flight, to lay low as if the rumours were a problem.

They really weren’t. She knew that very well. Dating rumours only negatively impacted upon actual individuals with cults of personality; actors and singers. Athletes were a tentative maybe in those circumstances – but with a face as notable as his, then the ‘maybe’ would swing closer to a ‘yes’ for Oikawa Tooru.

Which was annoying to think about – (Name) already had enough eyes on her for her books, she didn’t need a million more snooping around her private life.

Her fingers curled around the ceramic mug a little tighter,

Not that there was anything happening in her private life – because saying that there was would mean admitting that there was something between her and _Limpy_.

Which was ridiculous and impossible to think about. Nonsense. Completely.

It wasn’t like she hadn’t kept him in the corners of her mind throughout the entire wedding festivities, or tried to finish up her organisational work early in order to spend a day with him. And it definitely wasn’t as if she had interrogated his best friend – who still held some inkling of affection towards the male – about the subtle intricacies of his personality, just to make sure her newfound understanding of him was accurate.

Not at all.

Maybe.

 _Fuck this is bad_.

There was a knock at the door.

She didn’t answer.

Another series of taps echoed against the wood.

She remained silent.

She waited for the third round, but it never came. Instead a voice rang out like a bell to disrupt the silence.

“I heard this was a Do No Disturb room, but I have a feeling I’m exempt.”

(Name) almost dropped the mug as she scrambled to the door, feet thumping onto the thin and worn carpet before she unlocked the deadbolt and swung the door open.

“Imai Eikichi, what the hell are you doing in the middle of nowhere?!”

The mangaka stood before her, wearing a baggy tracksuit in a faded army green. His hair was unkempt, a few knots weaved into the lightly coloured locks. She stopped herself from laughing as her brain answered her question.

_Obviously not for business._

“Just finished the press tour, so I decided to relax before the December Rush the department tends to have. Most of my series happens in Takayama and I hadn’t been back in a while so I thought, why not.” He replied, shoving both of his hands in his deep pockets. “I saw you check in this morning while I was leaving for some coffee. I was going to ask if you want to go but…”

He looked past her, and she followed his gaze to where is settled on the half empty coffee mug left forgotten on the desk. She chuckled breathily.

“Yeah, I needed the caffeine kick,” she lied. Eikichi didn’t call her out on it. “Did you… need anything?”

He shrugged. “I just wanted to talk.”

(Name) stepped to the side, gesturing him to enter before she shut the door behind him. As she finished relocking the door, he sprawled out on the bed, reclining on the mound of pillows she had once perched on. She took the small desk chair, reaching out to cradle the mug back between both her hands.

When Eikichi didn’t initiate, (Name) took the lead.

“How’s Kondou-san?”

“I wouldn’t know, she isn’t my editor anymore.”

The air became frigid between them. (Name)’s mouth went dry. It was only then that she noticed the vacant look in his eye, and the fatigue faintly etched into his usually lively features.

“What happened?”

“Kondou and I wanted different things, so she broke it off the week after the party. And then the Growler noticed some tension between us so he forced her to change mangakas. And then we organised the press tour to have time to air out the awkwardness.” A saddened smile appeared on his face. “S’not so bad… I’m more surprised it didn’t happen sooner.”

“You snuck around for what, three months?”

“Five.” He folded his arms across his chest. “Shit happens, we move on.”

(Name) stopped to drink from her mug. “Looks like you haven’t.”

Eikichi looked away, morose. “Yeah, probably. But enough about this soon-to-be-washed-up’s love life,” she frowned at the words, watching as he rolled on to his side of face her, “I’m more interested in what _you’re_ doing out here. I’m assuming cause of the rumours about you and Pretty Boy.”

She averted her eyes and reached over from where she sat to turn on the small capsule coffee machine.

“Are they true?”

“Depends on what they’re saying.”

Eikichi shrugged. “Nothing outlandish, it’s honestly just speculation. Most are assuming you’re friends, especially since your editor was his teammate in high school.” He relaxed his arms, propping his head up under one arm while the other flopped lazily over the edge of the bed. “I asked my new editor to give me the scoop from the Lit Department this morning. Apparently Hanamaki has run with the friend angle, and Hisakawa isn’t angry with the rumours, ‘disappointed’ that you didn’t tell him that ‘Observations’ was written after someone so popular; he would have approved it straight away otherwise.”

“It’s not written after Limpy.” She fired back quickly, pouring herself a new mug of coffee. “There are plenty of poems in there that are about other people.”

“But plenty about Pretty Boy.” Eikichi grinned impishly, “because what other athlete could be described as man with ‘waxen wings who lands on shaky knees’ within the past two months?”

(Name) frowned, pausing her motions to drink. “Coincidence-”

“If it was then you wouldn’t be in the middle of nowhere moping, would you?”

“M’not moping.”

The auburn-haired writer laughed a little louder. “I may only hang around the Shounen Department, but _everyone_ in Kodansha knows that you tend to disappear when you’re mentally exhausted by the job. You’ve handled rumours and prying publicity without running, so you must at least care a little bit.”

She bit her lip. She did care, even if it was just a little.

Because if she had some inkling of a feeling towards Oikawa then that meant she had the same feeling for Bokuto. And yet she found it so _easy_ to reject him… What made Oikawa different? If there was something that separated them from each other, then (Name) could only assume that it was because her feelings for _him_ were stronger than the ones she thought she had for Bokuto.

And therein laid the problem for her; what does one do with emotions and feelings that they had been sure they didn’t need in the long run, that they felt they didn’t deserve from even themselves?

“Even if I hypothetically did have feelings for him – which I don’t – then I still wouldn’t do anything. It’s not worth it.” She frowned. “I’ve spent years reconciling this idea that I am okay alone, and that being loved was not for me. I was content with loneliness, and now I have things to live for, things with stakes? No thanks…”

The man nodded to himself, training his eyes on to her.

“Did you want my opinion?”

“Eh…”

“I say there’s no harm in going for it.”

“There’s always harm in going for it.”

“Maybe,” Eikichi hummed, “but that’s love.”

“I don’t love him.”

“Who says you have to?”

“You loved Kondou and look at how that turned out.”

“I _liked_ her,” he clarified, “I don’t think I ever _loved_ Kondou…” The wistful look appeared once more. “But that doesn’t mean I would have never fallen for her eventually.”

(Name) filled her mouth with lukewarm coffee.

“For someone who’s pretty adept at conveying the spectrum of human emotion on paper, you really can’t do it in real life.” Eikichi pondered aloud.

“In my defence, love has not necessarily been relevant to my life _until_ this year.” There was a dull thump in her chest as the words left her mouth, and the interested glimmer that once adorned Eikichi’s face faded. “Love is meant to last forever, and forever is not something I’m really ready to grapple with.”

“You’re a writer, (Name). You should know that real life isn’t the way you write it in a book – no matter how much you try, you dramatize and fantasise to reach a word count and pretend that that’s a reality. Love is hard – and it’s not a forever because _people_ aren’t forever.” He moved, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed and leant forward, elbows digging into his thighs as they sat face to face.

“I think that’s where we tend to go wrong with love. We think that because it’s shiny and new in our lives that it must be worth it, that we’ll always feel that way because that’s what everyone believes. But it’s not true. I was happy with Kondou, sure, but who knows if she would have made me happy in a year’s time – and she sure as hell wasn’t happy after just five months of being together. Things change, they have to, otherwise life gets boring.

“And love,” he scoffed, “love isn’t necessarily about finding someone to spend the rest of your life with someone, especially for our type of people. Talents like us are in a constant state of motion; love is leaving behind the possibility of forever and settling for the happiness of now, because who knows when that shit’ll disappear.

“Who cares if you go for it and you don’t love him? No one loves straight away. _You_ haven’t even been able to love yourself overnight, how the hell do you expect yourself to do it for this guy? There’s no harm, no foul in trying something. And if you’re terrified of the consequences that arise then maybe that’s a sign you actually care more than you think. You have to stop thinking about who you were and who you can be and start giving a fuck about who you _are_.”

Eikichi’s eyes hardened for a moment, glazed over with what (Name) only assumed to be hindsight.

“If you like him, you like him. You don’t have to love someone to be in a relationship, and you don’t have to be looking for someone who wants a long term commitment. Some people just don’t think about it, and maybe you shouldn’t either.”

(Name)’s brows pinched together in thought, her eyes narrowing inquisitively at the colleague in front of her.

“If I’m perfectly honest, you normally seem like you have no idea what you’re doing… But maybe your more adept at life than I am.”

Eikichi laughed, leaning back on one hand.

“Well at least I’m useful! Hey, you think I could transition into shoujo manga after my series is done? Cause that was a pretty good speech. Made me feel all,” he cradled his chin in the centre of both palms and wiggled his fingers near his cheeks, “in my stomach.”

The writer snorted. “Good luck getting away from the Growler. I bet he’s planning to keep you chained to a desk on the fifteenth floor.”

“Like you can talk. Hisakawa has your stipulations written on paper,” he shot back. She rolled her eyes.

“What would I do without you, Imai?”

He shrugged. “You’d have to buy your own luxury alcohol. How tragic.” The sarcasm dripped from his mouth, and she aimed a kick into his shin.

“How much longer are you in Takayama?”

“I’m checking out tonight.” He sighed. “Pushed my leave back just enough to talk to you and make sure you were okay, but now I gotta get back to the real world.”

“You didn’t _have_ to check in on me.”

“It was fortuitous and I am always one to seize an opportunity wherever necessary.”

Eikichi stood up, stretching his arms above his head and cracking his neck from side to side in the process.

“And if I didn’t, you would have been mulling over this stuff for your entire stay… you of all people deserve a decent break not plagued by our jobs.”

It was (Name)’s turn to look at him wistfully, almost thankful at the intervention. As if he read her mind, he waved his hand. “Don’t mention it, just do yourself some good while you’re here. Sleep in really late, try the ramen place opposite the train station, see one of the temples… just get your mind off of everything and look after yourself, yeah?”

“I make no hard promises, but I will put the effort into changing.” She saluted with two fingers, lips still curled around the rim of her cup. Eikichi hummed in satisfaction.

“That’s all I can ask for… want me to lock the door behind me?” She nodded and followed him as he said one more farewell and followed through with his instructions. The faint sounds of his footsteps padded softly into the distance.

When (Name) finally withdrew her attention from the door, she realised her coffee had grown cold.

 

* * *

 

She ordered dinner from a nearby restaurant and had it delivered to her room.

(Name) had said she would enjoy the town, sure, but her mind was filled with food for thought that was continuing to sap the remaining energy she had left.

Maybe Eikichi had a point.

Maybe she needed to change how she perceived relationships to be; maybe she and her perception of the world was the source of all her problems. It wouldn’t have been the first time she fucked herself over.

But that didn’t explain the contrast between her relationships with Oikawa Tooru and Bokuto Koutarou.

There was a small, almost insignificant part of her that was sure she could live without his reciprocation; she had lived without emotional acknowledgment for so long, what was the difference if Oikawa Tooru did the same? She didn’t need it, and yet there was still something compelling her to consider that maybe, just maybe, she didn’t necessarily hate all of him.

Those parts - the ones that were just barely sufferable - were simultaneously the most recognisable and the most confusing, she determined. Those parts were the ones she had taken to decoding in the same way she did everyone else in the world. Those parts were the ones she wrote about, the ones she had difficulty in grasping because how could someone be so complementary and contradictory to who she was all at the same time?

She knew his game - put everything into what you love without consideration for what it could do to you; use everyone so your life is a little easier; distance yourself so the struggle lies on you and you alone. It was pointless, wasn’t conducive to the life she wanted to live now. (Name) knew all of that now, so logic stated that she didn’t need his constant presence, his constant reminder of who she was trying not to be. And yet something wanted him around in the most _ridiculous_ ways and made an effort to keep it that way. Because despite their similarities, they were still vastly different. The lives they had led were two sides of the same coin, two different outcomes that the either wanted to see so desperately.

And then came Bokuto; the man who appeared and acted as though he was always there. Sure, she wrote about him too, held some genuine inkling of emotion and affection for him, and yet she could not reciprocate. It was the same situation; she didn’t love him, but she liked him to an extent, so what was it that was stopping her from trying something with him?

She swallowed the mouthful of katsu and pondered, mind wandering through the many days and nights of her life that had once been so insignificant, and yet now held the many answers to questions she so long prolonged in asking.

Skinship and affection, far-away glances and long, breathless kisses once felt exhilarating at the start and yet puttered out into nothing.

The ghost of his hands and lips on her skin had become less prominent as the days continued, as if he were becoming a mere memory the further they were apart. But perhaps it was inevitable.

Their love was not electric; what they had was static.

Static in the way it would not have progressed any further down the path they travelled. Static in the way energy died on their skin as time progressed on. Static in the way the moments and words he had said slowly crackled out of existence and were replaced by the presence of another man more troublesome than he was pleasant.

Bo fit into her life – there was no denying it when he had so quickly become a part of her existence that meant more than the mundane rut she had worked herself into. But there was a flaw in how he melded together with her, a flaw that she knew would haunt her forever.

He had shown her love, more so than she ever deserved from anyone, and pulled her into a warmth that she never knew existed. But it was not enough to disguise the obvious differences with where they both were in life.

He was red – burning and brimming with passion for a life yet to be forged.

She was blue – slow and stagnant in a river bed that had become comfortable in all the wrong ways.

And though the piece he had given to her fit in the open space of her puzzle, there was a clear difference in colour that was too jarring, to conspicuous to ignore.

Wrong place. Wrong time.

With Oikawa, it was different; calmer, even.

He was a similar shade, and though there was a slightly cooler undertone to his blue, when they were side by side it seemed to make sense. The bigger picture looked a little more conceivable, even if it was still incomplete. His piece of the puzzle had fit just as well, had complemented hers in a way Bokuto’s could not.

It disappointed her slightly; that fate had decided their stories were the ones destined to intertwine at that moment, and that he was what she needed to move forward.

Maybe not into forever, but definitely into the near future.

It was unfair on Bokuto.

It seemed most things that involved (Name) were very unkind to the wing spiker.

But he was not who she needed then. Like Iwaizumi had said, she needed to see the differences _alongside_ the similarities in order to appreciate what they both had. Being with Bo left something sour in her mouth, an understanding that they were too different from each other to work in the way he had hoped. He moved too quickly, and though it pulled her out of the stupor that was burnout, they _burned out_ together.

Such is life, she supposed.

(Name) laid her chopsticks across the top of the empty bowl and reached for her phone, briefly checking the time before she went to address the series of missed calls (all from Makki) and texts (from Mattsun) that had gone ignored for almost a day.

**Matsukawa Issei**

_Makki’s been tryna reach you for a while, we have something to tell you  (10:38am)_

_Okay now we’re worried.   (10:50am)_

_Why did Oikawa call us about you?  (10:52am)_

_Might wanna answer Hiro’s call now so you can explain what’s going on, (Name)   (12:01pm)_

_When you read these call me, or Makki….Stay safe, yeah?  (08:14pm)_

Makki hadn’t left any voice messages. If she was perfectly honest it was better that he didn’t; it meant that when she did finally grow a pair to call he would have had time to think and calm down as well as not feel guilty about whatever he had said in a message.

The writer sighed, prodding the name on the screen with her thumb and pressing the device to her ear. As the dial tone rang out, she reclined on the bed, her free arm dangling off the edge.

“We were starting to worry, y’know?’

The blocker’s voice was husky, as if she had disturbed his sleep from the sudden call. Knowing Mattsun, she probably did.

“Yeah, I figured.”

“You good?”

“Alive. Is my apartment still there?”

“It better be, I’m sleeping there right now.”

“No Makki?”

“Showing some Kodansha executives around. After what’s gone down with your name, he’s trying to make his reputation a little better in the Professionalism Area.”

“I’ve already told people how good he is, but I don’t wanna risk losing him as an editor.”

“Yeah, but y’know, we got engaged. It’s different being a Closet Disaster Gay and a Confident Functional Gay.

She blinked at the words, listening to the receiver crackle with her breath.

“You got _engaged_?”

“Mm.”

“I was gone _a week_ , when the fuck did you get a ring?!”

“I mean,” she heard him scratch his cheek, the sound of stubble adding to the atmosphere, “I was gonna tell you the plan but you up and left for Makoto’s wedding pretty suddenly… And I wanted to tell you the full story when you got back but…”

He coughed.

“You and Oikawa, huh?”

She sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose, flopping back. The writer landed awkwardly, her neck propped up on to the edge of the chair while her body arced strangely off the floor.

“I don’t know.” She huffed. “We’re friends, right Mattsun?”

“Long past that point, (Name), we’ve seen each other naked and I’ve stored a surprising fraction of my clothing at your place.”

“If I went for it… It wouldn’t be weird, right?”

Mattsun laughed softly. “(Name), most of 2018 has forced you to act out of character…”

“ _Weirder_ , then?”

“If it’s what you wanted then I don’t see why people would condemn you for you… I could maybe see why _you_ condemn yourself for it because you’re your worst critic, but I don’t think it would bother people. You’ve flown solo for so long, it might be nice to have some company with similar feathers. You asshole types tend to flock together.”

The (h/c)-haired woman breathed out a faint laugh.

_At least Mattsun’s on my side… The rationality is a comforting part of his disposition._

“Did you want me to tell Makki to call you so you can talk or…?”

“Nah,” she murmured, “tell him to handle the press as best he can and to say I’m off on a writing trip and can’t take questions or whatever… I’ll come talk to him in a week.”

Mattsun hummed in acknowledgement, the sounds of rustling sheets filled the silence for a moment. She had forgotten how nice it was to talk to him; life had been unkind in distancing them from each other of the past few weeks.

“Oh (Name)?”

“What?”

“I’ve got a bet going, which poems did you write about Oi-”

She hung up on him and dropped the phone back onto the table. With a heavy sigh she shut her eyes, leaning forward to let her forehead rest against the cool wood.

“Dumbass...”

 

* * *

 

When he was younger, training alone was abysmal.

These days, Bokuto found comfort in the silence and solitude. Perhaps it was a side effect of having been around the likes of (Surname) (Name) for so long, but regardless he was glad for the lack of people around him.

It meant he could practice his serves without judgement from others about his mistakes, his lack of focus, or the unneeded strength and aggression behind each swing.

He had never found the joy of a service – the simplicity of a spike was all he had needed in the past – but now there was something therapeutic about being able to hit a ball as hard as he could without the need of _anyone else’s intervention_.

This was good for him, he told himself, he needed to relieve the stress that had been bubbling inside of him before it killed him.

He would be facing Oikawa and Kuroo in two weeks’ time; he needed to be calmer by then.

Especially now with the newfound rumours and images of Oikawa and (Name) together surfacing.

“We don’t know if he went with her,” Hanamaki had reasoned that night they ran into each other outside of her apartment, “but whatever her decision was we accept because she’s an adult and can make her own choices.”

And she had made her choice – that much was clear. And that choice was against him, and in favour of a guy like Oikawa Tooru.

He could have her, Bo reasoned, he’d just take the Emperor’s Cup as a crutch instead, because a heart doesn’t heal overnight – especially when that heart was _far too_ attached to the woman it pined over.

With the last ball from the cart in his hands, he completed a final jump serve. The ball soared in the air, the momentum torpedoing it into the back left corner of the court and sending it flying off towards the box dedicated to the cameramen.

Sweat dripped off his forehead, and he stood still for moment in order to regain his breath. He needed to clean up; he still had practice with the boys tomorrow morning and he had to at least look as though he hadn’t overexerted himself the day before.

Cleaning was just as silent as serving practice, the squeaking of shoes against the polished wood emanated into the air, followed by the muted thuds of the leather against the canvas basket. Once the cart was filled and wheeled away into the storage cupboard, Bokuto returned to his back, draping his towel over his head and plopping down beside it.

He reached inside, rummaging around for his phone, only to pause as his fingers brushed against the familiar spine of a book.

 _Observations_ by (Surname) (Name)

Bokuto carried it everywhere these days, even if he didn’t necessarily read it, it was nice to know that some part of her heart was with him.

He had read that work a thousand times, had practically engraved every line into his memory as if it were a formation or strategy they needed to use.

It haunted him.

He could hear _her_ saying the words to him.

> _We were only together for months_  
>  _Mere moments when compared to_  
>  _The rest of our lives.  
>  _ _So fleeting, so sparse_
> 
> _We only shared brief moments at a time_  
>  _Mere encounters barely stringing_  
>  _Together sentiment and sentences  
>  P_ _aint my blues a little lighter_
> 
> _We weaved a new tale together_  
>  _Even if it was for a second_  
>  _And while we hoped it would last  
>  _ _It didn’t._
> 
> _You were always thrilling_  
>  _Electric_  
>  _Filled with an energy I could never match,  
>  _ _That I never wanted to part from_
> 
> _You and I_  
>  _Are two different stories_  
>  _With two different goals  
>  T_ _oo different from each other_
> 
> _You made my heart race_  
>  _And now my guilt consumes my consciousness_  
>  _The pace is slow  
>  _ _A dull thump of guilt_
> 
> _I didn’t know if I was sad_  
>  _until you came along_  
>  _And now I don’t know  
>  _ _If that sadness always existed_
> 
> _I could not give you everything_  
>  _You wanted_  
>  _Because you were always  
>  _ _Too good for me_
> 
> _I could only be selfish and take what_  
>  _I needed_  
>  _And though I am learning to take for myself  
>  _ _I am not strong enough to hold us both aloft_
> 
> _I will wallow in the guilt_  
>  A _nd wait for the day  
>  _ _You come back to me  
>  _ _And forgive me again_

It had to have been written after his botched confession. It made sense. There was no way she had felt this way about him before it. At least, he hoped so.

In their separation and the clarity provided by Akaashi’s confession, Bokuto realised just how much he had been warped by the idea of the writer.

But one could not help when they fell in love, nor could they help the environment which fostered the conditions for it to bloom. Things just happened, and he couldn’t blame himself or her for what had happened. He wanted her to be happy – whether that was with him or with Oikawa, he shouldn’t have cared. Her emotions were what mattered most, and there was a part of him that couldn’t help but consider the possibility that this had been mostly his fault.

He had always been the type to move too quickly, and she wanted the serenity of leisure. They were at different parts of their lives, and perhaps he was projecting the emotions he felt for her a little more aggressively than he should have.

Maybe. He couldn’t be sure, because there was still the fact Akaashi and Kuroo had asked her to distance herself from him.

Bokuto still needed to talk to her, to get the side of the story that would give him all the closure necessary to begin to move on.

He zipped up his bag and swung the strap over his shoulder. He rubbed the towel over his still damp hair and sweaty neck with his free hand, beginning to make his way to the locker room with tired, heavy footsteps.

He’d talk to her soon. He’d get answers soon.

And then he could focus on making himself better for the future. He could start being a little more selfish, a little more greedy, a little more mature.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lol exposition central? and eikichi finally says something in main dialogue (i think..its hard to keep track of every ngl)
> 
> and man, oh man, are we one step closer to closure??  
>  ~~we better fcking be m8 it is 27/30 you aint got any more time to fuck about~~
> 
>  
> 
> ALSO i'm sorry??? but 5000?? reads?? in less than a year??? for my shitty story???? im????
> 
> that doesn't make sense, there's probably a glitch in the system, but holy shit thank you all so much for your ongoing support and love and feedback on everything!! writing this and talking to yall has honestly been one of the best things about my year and im so torn over ending this because of the experience ive had I just - brb imSOBBINg byE
> 
>  
> 
> feedback is always appreciated, and general hate for how mean I am to my characters is always welcomed :)))


	28. Collide

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Because there comes a moment in one’s life where all coherency fades from their mind, and the stream of consciousness that defines humanity comes to a screeching halt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lol spoilers in end-note (???)
> 
> do not read before you finish the chapter

_ December, 2018  _

“All I’m saying is that if you’re gonna disappear then I’d at least like to find out the reason from _you_ rather than half of Tokyo trying get me to confirm or deny the rumours,” Makki reiterated, watching his writer dump the contents of her suitcase into the laundry hamper.

“Noted, sorted, unsure if I will keep my word so don’t hold me to it,” she grumbled, pulling the empty luggage into the main hall and tucking it into a closet. Makki followed close by.

“If I didn’t hold it to you then what kind of friend would I be?”

(Name) hadn’t realised how much she needed the reset from her life, and Takayama had provided her with a unique opportunity of relaxation and isolation that was more than welcome. The concept of returning to Tokyo, then, was scarier than she would admit, considering the fact she had consciously decided to avoid whatever news attempted to invade her private time in the countryside. She had, in turn, extended her trip to three weeks, purely for selfish desires of enjoying peace and definitely not because she wanted to continue to avoid whatever was waiting for her back home.

It wasn’t surprising to find that _Makki_ was the one waiting. From what Mattsun had told her in the brief conversation they had the day before she returned his fiancé was determined to be there ready to question her. Regardless, no amount of mental quizzing and preparation on the three hour train ride home could have prepared her for Hanamaki Takahiro, _especially_ when she herself still had things unanswered and outcomes unaccounted for.

She moved past him towards her bedroom, closing the door on him before he could enter. He grunted. “I need to change.”

“I’ve seen you naked like, twice, already-”

“I’d rather not find out what happens on Third Time's the Charm.”

He laughed, and she heard the door creak from the weight of his body leaning up against it. She made her way to the closet, pulling out a clean shirt tucked away in a drawer before pulling her clothes off her own body.

“I thought I was gonna come back to troves of reporters,” she said, back pressed against the door as she shrugged herself out of her jeans. “What’d you tell them?”

“Rumours were false,” Makki supplied with an airy tone. “I said you were friends with similar acquaintances from high school.”

She pulled her old shirt off, quickly replacing it with the new one she had retrieved. Once it was on she turned back around and opened the door, revealing Makki’s stoic expression. “Did they buy it?”

“Not like it’s a complete lie.”

“Not a complete truth either.”

He rolled his eyes. “They bought it,” he stepped aside, giving her enough room to move around him and dump her clothes into the laundry again, “with your trend of telling it like it is, it was easy to dispel that shit.” Makki waited for her to pass again before following her to the kitchen. He narrowed his eyes at the shirt she wore; it screamed ‘Mattsun left this behind one time’. He made a mental note to gather whatever else he had stored away in her apartment.

“Easy enough.” She hummed, pulling open the door to the fridge and sticking her head in. “Man, you guys really ate everything I had.”

“Gone for three weeks, (Name), we had to fend for ourselves.”

The writer waggled her index finger at him, a non-verbal “Point taken” that made the editor’s lips curl up into a smile. (Name) moved away from it, shutting the door with a swing of her hips before she eyed her coffee maker. “Want a cup?” He nodded, and she moved to the cabinets to retrieve the beans.

“It’s good that you’re back, though, I don’t think I could have handled living here for another day… Too empty. We should get you another shelf or something… Maybe just move the one from your study out here.”

“It’s barely been an hour and you’re already trying to reinvent my image after a failed scandal,” she snorted, “it never ceases to amaze me how you work so quickly.”

“If years of volleyball have taught me anything, it’s that you don’t lose an opportunity to improve… Or to strike.”

The air ran cold, and (Name) pulled her lips into a tight line.

“But that now the situation is over and we don’t have to worry about people trying to ruin your career, you can actually talk to me about _this_.”

 _Fell right for that one_.

As she turned to face him with a last ditch attempt to save herself, she stopped. The words died in her throat. She watched as her editor blocked the entryway to the kitchen with his body, arms stretched across the expanse of open air while he widened his stance. “What the hell are you doing?”

“Manning the perimeter; we can’t have you running away from me.”

Her shoulders dropped and she tilted her head, eyebrow arched.

“M’not gonna run away again.”

“You sure?”

“Makki I’m in my _underwear_.”

“I mean after a relationship scandal I would not cross nudity off the list.”

“You’re being facetious.”

“I’m being _careful_.”

“Y’know having your legs out like that gives me an easier shot at your balls.”

His gaze hardened.

“Don’t you dare.”

“Try me.”

They stared at each other, unspoken challenges displayed in on their faces. Makki wavered

“Promise you aren’t gonna try and leave.”

She lifted her dominant hand. “Scout’s honour… Besides, I just started the machine, I can’t risk not having a cup right now.”

Makki brought his limbs back towards his body, standing up to his full height and took to leaning his right shoulder against the wall, waiting for her to speak. “Well? Why’d you run?”

“Would you believe me if I said I didn’t know?”

“'Didn’t' past tense? As in ‘you didn’t know and now you do’ didn’t?”

“M’not sure if that’s what that means, but yeah sure.”

She averted her gaze and took to watching the freshly brewed coffee drip down into the glass pot below the small opening.

“You probably do have a good idea. I mean, I do.”

“Which is?”

“You care about that loser.” He replied. “Why else would you have laid low?”

“I have run for a lot more, and a lot less – I’m the literary equivalent of Usain Bolt.” The writer admonished.

“And I’m not denying that,” Makki assured. “But you only ever run when it’s something _you_ know will adversely affect _your life_ ; and for as long as I’ve known you that tends to be _people_ rather than _opinions_.”

She blinked and snapped her head in his direction.

“Makoto, your dad, that one time you and Mattsun had a really big argument third year, the time when you almost punched your Ex-Editor in front of the President and thought you got yourself fired. ” He rattled them off one by one, counting them on his fingers and punctuating each one with the tilt of his head. “And now, Oikawa.”

(Name) turned around, reaching up to one of the higher cabinets to retrieve two mugs. Once she placed them back down onto the counter, she gripped the handle of the coffee pot, well aware of the way Hanamaki’s eyes continued to follow her movements. The editor moved, standing with his lower back resting on the edge of the counter to her left.

“You’ve got no proof.”

“You wrote this thing in _February_ . Even if you didn’t like him like you do – _or don’t_ – now , you can’t deny that the dude’s been on your mind creatively for a long time.” He nudged her with his elbow. “Denial’s not a pretty colour on you.”

_Eikichi said something similar, the fucker._

The writer frowned and sighed, exasperated. “I hate that people know my habits better than I do…” She grumbled, tightening her grip around the handle. (Name) lifted her head back to him. “Maybe I care a little-”

“Thanks, Captain Obvious-”

“But that’s all there is to it.”

The sound that erupted from Makki’s throat was inhuman, something close to a strangled cat mixed with equal parts concern and disbelief.

“There has to-”

“There’s _nothing_ ,” she reiterated. The light turned off from the machine and she immediately pour the hot liquid into both mugs. With her free hand she slid the ceramic over to him, which he caught with ease. “I just have curiosities about him-”

“That result in, like, half a poetic anthology being dedicated to him-”

“ _Curiosities_ about him that reveal very disconcerting things about myself that I would rather understand than dismiss.” (Name) finished, voice echoed ever so slightly as the mug met her lips and the sounds reverberated from the coffee. She sipped slowly, keeping her gaze forward to face out into the lounge.

“And that’s all you want?” He asked, mimicking her movements at a similar speed.

She shrugged. “I’d enjoy answers.”

“From who?”

“Myself.”

Makki scoffed. “Good luck with that. You’re bad at avoiding the likes of me or Mattsun, but you can avoid yourself for till the end of time.”

“Your faith in my abilities to mature are truly astounding, Makki.”

“I’ll start placing more faith in you when you stopping running away from the truth.”

“Which is?”

It was his turn to shrug. “I dunno – you’re the smartest one here, you figure it out. Talk to the guy, I bet he wants the same. Fuck, he probably does, you two are-”

“The exact same person, I am aware.” She interjected, voice monotone and flat. The editor refrained from laughing at the displeased expression on her face.

“Just figure it out, yeah? You two are my friends and I’d appreciate knowing where the line is so Mattsun and I can continuously cross it.”

“Friend and Editor of the Year, truly...” She sighed. “But I make no hard promises. I’ll need five months preparation time and therapy with Nakamura in order to prepare. My pride is damaged and I predict it will take months of physical rehabilitation to heal.”

He kicked her in the shin. She grinned, if but only for a moment before a pensive look appeared on her face.

“You and Mattsun never put a label on it till you got engaged, right?”

The editor paused for a second before nodding. “I just assumed that we were in it together for the long run, and that traditional labels didn’t really define what we had.”

“Which was?”

“Mutual understanding.” There was a glow that adorned the man’s face, one she didn’t necessarily associate with the topic of Matsukawa Issei. Perhaps it was due to the fact that the two, though open about their arrangement, never delved into specifics concerning their reality. “He’s always been there when I needed him, and he knows that the life we’ve planned for ourselves doesn’t make sense unless we’re living it _together_. So we make it work, because the other options are nice, but not enough.”

The writer hesitated, glancing away from her friend.

“You and Oiks aren’t us.” Makki reiterated. “You’re _worse_ than us.”

“S’a little harsh-”

“So just do what you think is right.” He placated. “Even if you think it’ll hurt you in the long run, you won’t really know until you make that choice and follow it through.”

In that moment, (Name) was sure that Makki was in her corner, albeit hesitant and unsure about the arrangement, but enough to show a concern for her wellbeing on a level beyond the professionalism she had forced herself to stick to.

It was a nice feeling.

“You gonna be staying long or can I go to sleep and trust you’ll be gone by the time I wake up again?”

“You _just_ had coffee.”

“You underestimate how evolution has shaped the temple that is my body.”

Makki sniggered. “I can go if you really want it. I’ll bring Mattsun around next time so you can yell at both of us for this terrible, terrible mistake we’re committing to.” The pink-haired male tapped his ring finger against the mug, the sound of the platinum band clinking against the ceramic dissipated into the air. She nodded.

“The thought alone will help me sleep tonight.” (Name) hummed, pushing herself away from the counter and teetering slowly to the bedroom. “Lock the door when you leave?”

“You got it.”

“Also, remind me to burn the entire bed after I finish my nap.” She mused. “God only knows what you two did.”

She turned her head to cast a small teasing smile over her shoulder, watching as all the heat evaporated from his body and then quickly condensed into guilt. He didn’t notice the way her mouth murmured a curt ‘thanks’ before she disappeared behind the bedroom door.

 

* * *

 

Oikawa sighed as he slumped into the bus seat, towel over his head as he glanced out of the window.

They won their match against the FC in Sakai, a marginal victory that had set themselves up as a strong contender for First Place by the end of the first brackets of the round-robin styled tournament. Tarou-chan had been relentless with the offense, and though the pressure of his glare and the power of his spikes were threatening, they proved to be no match for Oikawa’s precision in the heat of the moment. And despite it having been more than half an hour since the game’s conclusion, the brunet still had trouble breathing. The adrenaline refused to leave his body, and so his mind remained more alert than it need to be post-game. Which sucked, he thought, because the bus-ride from Sakai was a little over five hours, and if they weren’t going to be back in Tokyo until midnight when he would have preferred a quiet mind.

But beggars couldn’t be choosers.

There was a soft thump from beside him, and he turned his attention to the right to see the Panther’s bed-headed middle blocker sitting in the once empty space, backpack at his feet and a paperback book parallel to his face.

“Is that something other than a chemistry textbook, Tetsu-chan?” Oikawa inquired, voice low as so not to disturb their slumbering teammates. “I never thought I’d see the day.”

Kuroo leant back against the seat as his right hand fumbled and clicked the seatbelt across his lap. His eyes continued to dart up and down the length of the pages as he absorbed the words before him. The bus lurched forward as he spoke, pulling out of the stadium parking lot to begin the long journey to the capital.

“Can’t believe it either,” he retorted. His focus didn’t waver.

Oikawa rested his elbow on the thin window sill and propped his chin in the centre of his elevated palm. “What? It’s that interesting?”

Kuroo hummed, turning the page with his thumb. “Most things are more interesting than whatever you have to say,” he quipped.

The setter frowned, and he forced himself to look back towards the window and watch the terrain role by them. Soft snores from his slumbering teammates filled the atmosphere of the bus, only to be broken by the cautious turning of the pages as the blocker beside him continued to read.

“The rumours got denied.”

The words hung in the air, and though their vagueness would have fooled anyone else, it did not fly over the setter’s head.

_Leave it the Tokyo Gossip to know everything._

Oikawa nodded in time with the engine’s purring.

“Her editor released a couple statements,” he answered, “said we had mutual acquaintances from high school. No one bothered questioning it.” He exhaled. “Perks of being the Mysterious Writer, I suppose.”

Makki-Makki called him the same day he issued the statements, feeding him information to make whatever story he had crafted a little more believable. “Just in case publicists start to try and confirm it with you,” he said.

(In all honesty, Oikawa was sure that would not happen. Though he and his friends were used to dealing with the escapades of stardom, it seemed that he was in the supporting role in these circumstances.

Not that he was complaining. It was nice, to not deal head on with the media’s shenanigans.)

“You must be relieved.”

He clicked his tongue. “Hardly.”

“Because you really want them to be true?”

“Because now it means we’re gonna keep avoiding a very long-awaited discussion about-”

“Whatever is actually going on.”

“Exactly.”

Kuroo narrowed his eyes inquisitively, and though he continued to face forward he let his eyes flicker to the left to scrutinise the setter’s every move.

“Y’know _you_ can be the one to bring that up, right? Like, nothing’s wrong with you wanting closure.”

“I don’t want closure, I _deserve_ it.” The words came out as a hiss. “And I want her to be the one to initiate. She spent three weeks running and hiding for a rumour Makki-Makki said wouldn’t really affect her, and I call bullshit.” He folded his arms across his chest. “Why would she hide if she didn’t feel attacked?”

“She felt she deserved the distance?”

The brunet scoffed. “She felt she couldn’t handle the situation as it was.”

“And what, you did?”

“Damn right I did – I handled that like a champion and didn’t run away because I was scared of what the other person would say.”

The blocker snorted. “Totally. Not like you ran not just from the possibility of drama in Tokyo, but directly into the line of sight of the person who you claim to be the bane of your existence.”

Oikawa’s head whipped around, the tips of his curls fluttering from the sudden movement and-

“I didn’t run, _she_ asked me to be there-”

“You didn’t have to say ‘yes’ though, you could’ve left her hanging and hidden yourself away but you walked out into a function in a prime tourist area at the risk of igniting rumours you so desperately tried to deny when you last talked to me.” Kuroo waggled the index finger on his left hand, continuing to read the words written on the page. “You can’t blame her for crying wolf when you’re prone to doing it as well, Crappykawa-kun.”

The brunet scowled and raised his hand. With a quick slap, the book fumbled in Kuroo’s grasp. Either side clapped against his cheeks and sandwiched his nose between the pages. The blocker’s hands went to catch it, and Oikawa caught the way his eyebrows furrowed into a flinch.

The ravenet glared. Oikawa glared back.

“You either roast me with your full attention or you keep your nosy demon cat face outta my business,” he challenged.

“What’d you want me to say, man?” Kuroo sighed, running a hand over his eyes. “That you’re overthinking everything and you are the only victim here?”

“I mean I was just hoping for a confirmation of my sanity, but sure, I’ll take that too.”

“Too bad, I’m not doing either.” Kuroo closed the book and tucked it underneath his thigh as he turned to address his friend as requested. “I know what I see, and it’s obviously not the full story from either perspective.”

“It _is_ the full perspective from my side.”

“And that is?”

“That she means – _is_ – nothing to me.”

The conviction in his voice scared him, as if the deep recesses of his mind did not expect the certainty within him. False certainty, he was sure.

Kuroo scoffed. “Liar.

“I am not-”

“Then why the need for closure? Doesn’t the need for answers – the need for anything – imply that there is meaning and concern in place?”

Oikawa gritted his teeth as the words left the other man’s mouth. “Because she has left me with _nothing_ but more questions and finds a way to weasel her way out of every chance I have to getting the answers I _know_ I deserve!” He hissed, jaw hurting from the tension in his joints.

“How sure are you about that?”

At this, Kuroo’s fingers wrapped around the closed edges of the book and pulled it out from where it was hidden away. He held it out to him, the front now facing the setter who stared at it with wide eyes.

Oikawa felt his lungs constrict as he read the lettering on the black cover.

 _Observations by (Surname) (Name)_.

“What…”

“Released in June of this year,” Kuroo’s voice was smooth, calming even, as if he knew the lid was soon about to blow off of Oikawa’s body, “one of the most popular books sold this year, even with only twenty poems compiled into it. When I heard I didn’t really get the hype about it, and then I decided to give it a shot... n’read it all the way here.”

With a thumb tucked around the cover page, Kuroo let the pages fan out before he spun it around in his grasp, pinkie finger holding the book open enough for him to reveal the title of the poem displayed on the page.

**A Thousand And One Nights**

“I’ve always considered you a smart guy, Oiks… A bit ditsy to what’s going on around you, sure, but when the pieces are in front of you, you tend to figure the puzzle out pretty quickly.”

The book slipped from his grasp into the setter’s lap. He fumbled for it, hands clumsily pressing it between both palms before he brought it closer to his chest. He looked back, dark brown eyes meeting the cat-like hazel ones, and it was only then Oikawa realised how exhausted he actually was. What others would consider fatigue from playing a full five sets, Oikawa recognised from their university days, were the two of them would pour over notes and formulae and chemical equations and combinations for hours on end before an exam.

“You’ve got, like, four hours.” Kuroo hummed, a coy smile on his face. Oikawa’s head snapped back and forth between the book and his teammate. “See how many answers you get outta that.”

And then he turned, leaning on his right shoulder so that he faced away from the setter. Oikawa watched his breathing slow into relaxed tempo, a brief sign that he was nodding off into sleep, and then he was alone.

 

* * *

 

It was a little after midnight when she woke up, jolted from her slumber by the sound of heavy knocks against her front door.

Hurried. Demanding.

_Surely I didn’t sleep for that long._

The pounding grew louder as she moved from her bedroom towards the entrance of her apartment. Her eyes were still hazy from her drowsiness as she began to unlock the door. Perhaps she should have been more aware, and the hindsight of her situation finally hit her when she began to the turn the knob and open it.

But logic be damned – some _asshole_ decided it would be fun to interrupt her-

“Oikawa?”

The setter stood before her at her door, arm propped up against the frame as he breath heaved from deep within his chest, an uneven rhythm that disturbed the peace of the night. The brunet was adorned head to toe in his volleyball gear, and the back he held in his other hand matched the blue and black of his tracksuit.

“I see his eyes in the darkness of the night, when all is hidden and where my sins cannot find me.”

He straightened his back up, the mop of cow-licked locks no longer hiding his eyes. (Name) squared her shoulders and straightened up, her grip tightening around the metal handle.

“Though we have never touched I feel the ghost of his hands on my body. And in these moments I lie in wait for a reality that never comes.”

The setter took a step forward, crossing the threshold of the doorway and leaving his duffle bag just inside the genkan. The writer’s eyes widened, and as her hands moved to try and close the door his free hand blocked it’s path, pressing deep into his skin and causing a bright red mark on his forearm. Fingers curled around the edge of the door, and his fingernails scrapped against the lacquered surface.

“I see his eyes in my dreams, amidst the dizzying haze of life and cannot help but be pulled by some force of nature towards him, further and further.”

She stepped back form him. He followed suit. Like a twisted waltz that made her hair stand on end.

“He is a man of logic and reason, yet cannot deny the story that he has lived. A life of pure make-believe made real by his own hands and heart.”

(Name) barely registered the front door slamming shut. Instead her senses were focused on _him_ and the fact he was _here_ and she was _nowhere near ready for this reality_ -

“Like the moon pulls the waves, he draws me in until I am away from the familiarity of the shore and in an uncontrollable whirlpool.”

He had hissed those words out, and they wrapped themselves around her neck and continued to choke whatever air she tried to keep inside of her lungs. Her back hit the wall – had the genkan _always_ been this small? – and her neck snapped up to hold the taller man’s gaze.

“ _I drown_. It does not bother me.”

Oikawa’s voice dropped an octave, his chest practically shaking against her as he pushed her closer and closer to the wall, keeping himself right there within arm’s reach.

“I see his eyes in my reflection, see the story of someone broken and realise that I want to know.”

His breath fanned over her face. And (Name) moved to turn, only to have him slam his left palm parallel to her face. She felt the plaster shake.

“His eyes hold a thousand nights filled with stories that I have heard before.”

He kept crowding her down, down – until she was sure that her entire back was flush against the plaster. Her eyes were wide, almost protruding from their sockets at the proximity they were sharing.

“But for him… I would not mind listening to just one more.”

(Name) stayed still, concerned that movement would set him off. The predatory look in Oikawa’s eyes was enough of a hint to tell her _not_ to. But beneath that challenge was a request – something almost desperate and pleading with her to say something, _anything_.

So she did.

“You missed a few lines.”

Oikawa’s eyes narrowed in disbelief.

“ _That’s_ all you have to say?” He snapped, fingers curling in to form a fist, all of his weight resting into where his knuckles met the wall. “You wrote a _fucking poem_ about me.”

“I write things about a lot of fucking people.”

“There were _five_.” He leaned in a bit more, the tips of their noses just barely touching while their breaths met in the middle and mingled between their lips.

“Don’t get your hopes up,” she dismissed.

“How is it hope when there are facts?!” He floundered. “You have the _nerve_ to pretend that nothing is going with us and then write this _bullshit_ without me knowing!”

“In my defence, you should have known…” For the first time in all their encounters, (Name) heard her voice squeak. She pushed a fisted hand against his sternum, trying to push him away a little more. He barely budged. “You were at the party… all three of my works were on display there.”

“Did it _look_ like I gave a shit as to why we were there celebrating?! I got dragged along by Mattsun!”

“80% of the conversations were focused on me-”

“Again, did I give a _single shit_?”

“ _You didn’t have to say yes.”_ She emphasised, watching as his gaze wavered ever so slightly.

“Yes I did!”

His pupils shook one more time, and then they stopped. His eyes narrowed slowly into slits, and whatever distance was left between them continued to decrease as he leaned it,

“You are the most frustrating person I have ever met in my life – the most _entitled_ and _evasive_ asshole I have _ever_ known. Since the night I met you, you have been a pain in my ass for reasons I don’t fucking get. And I stepped too far, I admit that, and when I try to make things better I get _nothing_ from you. Absolutely _nothing_ . All I get, ever, is the air of confidence and vibrato that _you_ condemned _me_ for and that’s it!

“So I said _yes_ – to everything – because I thought that maybe you would finally stop running away from whatever history we’ve made for ourselves and actually confront the bullshit we’ve been trying to bury. And then I read that dumb fucking poetry book and find out that you’ve already come to terms with that shit? Like while I’m here mulling over how _I feel_ and what _I want_ , and there you already having a goddamn clue about your own because you’re so _selfish_.

“And even with _everything_ you’ve written, I still have questions! And that’s bullshit! Because how do you answer so many questions and announce a million others? And when I want them answered, you do what you always do and _run_ . You run from _me_ , you run from _Makki_ , you run from _Mattsun_ – you run from _Tarou-chan-_ ”

Oikawa grabbed the wrist pushing against his chest with his right hand, fingers pressing into her pulse point.

“And you get to constantly run from _yourself_ and I’m tired of it. You don’t get to play dumb while I have to be hyper aware of every move I do, every thought I have of you, every moment where I think maybe – just _maybe_ – I’ll get something more and then _don’t_. And it’s all cause you won’t let me!”

At this, she felt his heartbeat beneath all the layers of his clothes, and he stooped a little lower to try and match her eyeline.

“I gotta know where I stand with you – where _you_ stand with _me_ – because even assholes like me can only take so much push and pull and pretend and confusion with someone like you…”

She averted her gaze, looking down to where his feet were wedged in between her own, to where his fingers pressed a little tighter against her flesh. The intensity in his eyes was bright, like headlights on a car cutting through a thick fog. Clarity. That’s what he tended to be with her.

“I don’t hate you.”

The words were a whisper in the wind, barely gracing his eardrums.

“But I don’t love you either.”

She unclenched both of her fists and heaved a heavy breath, as if her very being was still coming to terms with whatever they really were, like a body assimilating a transplant.

“And I’m not going to deny you mean _something_ small to me – because I ran, and I run when I’m scared of consequences, and consequences only occur when you give a shit…And I agree that the problem is me and not you, cause I flake and don’t commit – I don’t _want_ to commit to someone who I’ve tried so hard _not_ to be. You’re obsessed with progress and betterment and success and it does my head in cause I don’t want that.

“But you just wouldn’t leave… and I thought I could deal with you the way I do all my other pains…. I wrote something and it turned into one poem then another and another and suddenly it wasn’t just you, it was _everyone_ , and maybe all my therapy and bullshit was looking half decent and not hopeless. Like, there was something there that made sense and I didn’t know what it was until I looked and I saw your ugly dumb face looking back at me.

“But like, I was perfectly content with you never reading that book, like I have come to know a world where the possibility of this-” she tapped one of her fingers on his chest “-in any form doesn’t happen. But I don’t think that’s going to work anymore… Cause even though there are parts of you I admit I find endearing, there are more parts of you that I just don’t – just _can’t_ stand – and I know you feel the same too.

“But _you_ make sense, and I hate that, cause it means the part of me that I’ve spent twenty-something years trying to ignore was right and I don’t want her to be! And that means the part of me you hate must be right for you too, and only the entire fucking pantheon of gods know what that would do to you! So I left, because what else am I meant to do, accept it?”

Oikawa didn’t speak.

Instead he lurched forward and pulled the arm he still held, and pushed his lips up against hers.

Because there comes a moment in one’s life where all coherency fades from their mind, and the stream of consciousness that defines humanity comes to a screeching halt. And in those moments, the only reasonable thing that manifests in the mind is ‘Fuck’.

And there was a certainty bestowed upon him by hindsight.

This was the elusive _fuck_ moment.

(Name)’s eyes had shut from the impact, and though something wanted her to keep them open he refused. Though there was urgency, there was a laxness to it that slowed down the rhythm of her heart, and exuded a sense of ease uncharacteristic for the setter.

Oikawa loosened his grip on her wrist and slowly guided her hand up to wrap around his neck. He let his right hand rest on the curve where her shoulder tapered into her bicep, squeezing in tandem with the movements of their mouths. His left hand unclenched its fist and settled in the crook of her neck, thumb pressing deep into the curve of her neck to feel her heartbeat because _it’s real you did this you’re not letting her get away_.

His mouth coaxed hers open slowly, tongue running across the seam they formed once, twice, three times before he was met with her own. Hesitant, unsure, like the way her left hand gripped the fabric of his jacket and the right had ghosted over his side.

And there, in his chest, the sensation from the wedding reared its almost non-existent head his way as if it were finally making sense.

Which it wasn’t.

Because he still couldn’t pin it down.

Maybe a hyperawareness of her, sure, but it wasn’t enough to explain how he could still tell the difference of each of her fingerprints as they barely brushed his skin, or the ways her heart raced or slowed the more or less her moved, or even the soft breathing that fanned out from her nose and across the lower half of her face.

His bad knee buckled, and instinctively he took her down with him.

(Name) slid down the height of the wall, landing flat on her butt with her legs sprawled out while the setter rested between them, taking the new position to prop himself up higher and angle her chin up with the hand against her neck.

He was warm – too warm for the encroaching winter months – and uncharacteristically steady in their embrace.  She could feel his muscles tense and release under her fingers, and it willed her to stay still in the off-chance he would get scared away. _As if_ he could, not after what he had said mere minute ago, but they were still unstable in their chemistry, and only practiced and poised ministrations could synchronise their existences.

And it was then and there she felt it, the presence she had not been sure about.

He broke away first, resting his forehead against her own. She felt his shoulders rise and fall as they helped is body gulp down much needed air. It would have been cute, had it not been for the fact she was doing the same thing.

“Did you feel it?”

Her eyes fluttered open, (e/c) meeting dark brown ones that were filled hesitation.

“Th-That _thing_ , did you-”

The words faded out, leaving the setter gaping around empty syllables while his mind struggled to form them. The writer’s shoulders lifted into a shrug – because there _was_ something, the thing that exemplified all feelings and non-feelings about them… As he watched her move he sighed, and let his head drop to her shoulder.

“Describe it to me… Please…” Oikawa croaked, the grip on her wrist tightening ever so slightly. “M’not good with words… Help me make sense of all this… Please… I-It feels like I’m going mad because of _you_ , of _all_ people I could be mulling over I just-”

His hands still lingered on her neck and shoulders, squeezing at the flesh as he tried to match his breathing with hers. (Name) looked over his shoulder, dead ahead into the lacquered wood of her front door as the rest of her once muted thoughts returned like a torrent of water in a tube.

She breathed out her own sigh.

“It’s like coming home…”

Oikawa’s grip tightened a bit.

“But not here in Tokyo home… T-The homes where nothing good ever happened and we tried to forget. It’s familiar, because we’ve been here before… And foreign, because suddenly it’s not the same places we hated all those years ago. Because it looks complete – a different type of complete to the way I originally wanted it to be – and I’m okay with that…”

Their fingers pinched each other in tandem.

“It’s like you’re exhausted, but a nice type of exhausted… Where you accomplished everything that you needed to do and now you’re just existing without the need to be anything more than who you’ve always been because you actually kind of, get it now…”

(Name) felt him nod, forehead digging into her collarbone ever so slightly, a sign that he agreed with the sentiment. That the feeling was shared between them and there was an equilibrium of-

“Gonna write another poem about me, Writer-chan?”

“Gonna kick you in the dick, Limpy.”

He laughed, their chests rumbling against each other before he lifted himself from her shoulder and stared at her.

He wanted to ask, wanted to pry as to what happened to _them_. What happened within those walls that day, that night, all those months ago?

But he didn’t, and instead he closed the distance between them once more in another heated kiss. His tongue all but invaded her mouth, roaming and searching for what he assumed to be the remnants of his friend that may have been lingering on her tongue. He wanted him gone, wanted to take over in every way imaginable because _that’s_ what this was, and _that’s_ what he knew they both wanted.

He didn’t need to know – not then. All he needed was assurance that-

Oikawa pulled away again, lips barely hovering above her own.

“Don’t run away this time…”

It was her turn to laugh.

“I make no hard promises.”

 

* * *

 

He stayed on her couch that night while she, still wide awake from her early turn in, locked herself in her study to revise the workings of the third book of her contract.

(“Definitely not about you,” she announced, pushing his face away from the door, “I keep my books separate from my poems.”

“You say that as if I’ve read anything else you’ve written.”

“Then let’s keep it that way, yes?”)

Despite being left alone by the writer, he couldn’t bring himself to sleep. There was an energy in the air that kept him up – something about the fine line that existed between late night and early morning.

Oikawa sat up on the couch, rubbing his eyes and shrugging his jacket which once lay strewn across the arm his temporary bed back over his shoulders. He cracked his neck and stood up, inspecting the room.

He hadn’t been inside her apartment before – and if her were honest the decorations were lacklustre. Not that he was expecting much from her, really, what with her abysmal presentation of her genuine self to other people face to face… Really, it was no surprise that her furniture were just as bland, if not basic. The only type of character he could discern was the bookshelf.

Naturally, he moved towards it, stepping around the kotatsu and letting his gaze scan up and down each shelf one by one. The top shelf was dedicated to her works, a mess of thin paper magazines and hardcover books. In contrast, the remaining three shelves were a much more organised affair, alphabetised by author – a mix of academic and pleasure that made Oikawa frown. Of course she would do that; and there he thought for a moment she would do something more unconventional – like arranging them by colour or a weird rating scale that was only privy to her.

There was no sign of her literary awards, and he could only assume that they were locked away in her study where no one else could see them or praise her for. And, he guessed that’s why all of her works were out of eyesight and reach for the most averagely sized people – out of sight, out of mind.

Oikawa frowned when he caught a glimpse of something laid on top of her novels, and he reached up and removed the glint. His lips pulled into a frown.

A photo of her and Bokuto, pink moss framing them from behind while they both grinned.

Out of sight, out of mind indeed.

He put it back, dusting his fingers on his shirt before reaching up again to latch on to the spine of an unfamiliar edition.

The cover and title displayed on the spine said ‘Observations’, but the cover was different to the edition Kuroo had shared with him. It was a soft powder blue, with the familiar white text displaying the anthology’s tightly down the left side of the cover lengthways.

The setter opened it and began to read, mouthing the words the first poem – the first full installment of her work – that he had ever read.

And the something she described a few hours before made sense. Their vulnerabilities were mirrored – two stories running parallel to each other that forced their flaws open and made them relate, regardless of what they told themselves they wanted.

And all because he fucked his knee and took to moping on-

He turned his head and stared towards the closed curtains that hide the doors to the balcony.

Silently he moved, sliding the curtains open and exiting the lounge. Careful, precise, because there was a strange reverence about being on (Surname)’s balcony more than being _in_ her apartment.

Oikawa stepped out, letting the sunrise wash over him and tan his skin in a warm orange hue. He dropped the book on to the small table and moved to the edge, resting his forearms against the railing while he shut his eyes and enjoyed the brief sense of peace the quiet morning appeared to bring him. It wasn’t as cold as winter tended to be, but he was sure that he would receive that garish reminder at some point.

In the silence, he barely registered the soft padding of footsteps coming towards him.

“And here we have Seijoh alumni living up to his school’s mascot and photosynthesising like the plant he is.”

He opened both eyes and he felt the writer step up to his side, leaning with her lower back against the railing and arms folded across her chest.

“The grass _is_ always greener on the other side, Limpy. You enjoy this view while you can.”

He scoffed. “My view’s better.”

“On what grounds?”

“I can see more into that man’s living room, which means I can watch his TV from here. Stealing cable without actual stealing cable.”

“Ah yes, theft. Give the government another reason to arrest you, Caesar. Everything you do is one step closer to primate experimentation.” She smirked at him impishly before shutting her own eyes. The sun continued to rise, warming both of their bodies before the winter wind could enter from the ocean.

Oikawa glanced down at her from the corner of his eye and remained silent.

He wasn’t sure if the warmth was from the sun or not.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AYOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO CLOSURE!!!!!!  
> can y'all believe it? I can't believe it! I feel like a proud parent after all that -and now there's only two chapters left???? brb getting mad sentimental.
> 
> I think I mentioned once before I have a complete list of headcanons for this world we're all lowkey invested in. one of those is that mattsun has a duality that baffles anyone that doesn't know him very well (and some people who do tbh) - he exudes sexy and expensive in public, but the clothes he wears around people he cares about are either really tacky and ugly, variant of dad clothes, or meme related.  
> so please feel free to imagine writer-chan wearing a mattsun size shirt that says ME ME BIG BOY or something stupid while she and oiks essentially confess their sins to each other :))))
> 
> also! im still tossing up on how the hell Im gonna do the Q&A for this thing, so if you have any ideas or suggestions let me know? 
> 
> thank you for all the comments and kudos my loves!! and fir all the support as we run this thing directly into the ground <3


	29. Clarity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> But selfishness was, strangely, a two way street.
> 
> To be selfish meant that you either took what you need in order to be happy, or you took what you didn’t need in an attempt to be better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the endnote is kinda long because of an important (but not really) announcement, but there's a TL;DR in case you don't wanna read my ramblings

_ December, 2018 _

“There should be a part of me that grows concerned when you suddenly disappear from my line of sight, (Surname)-san, but if I’m honest I’ve slowly become unbothered by your  _ behaviours _ .”

“You’re not alone with that sentiment, Doc, that’s for sure.”

“Does that mean you’re going to stop that elusive behaviour for my own sanity?”

“Wishful thinking gets you nowhere.”

The therapist covered her chuckles with a sniff of her nose, tapping her pen against the clipboard as her eyes scanned the old copies of notes from sessions gone by.

(Name) had fallen through with their catch up sessions in the wake of Makoto’s wedding, and though that was to be expected from both parties, there was the silent hope from the older woman that her client would keep going. The progress had been phenomenal, small in comparison to some of her other experiences with individuals facing burn out and a stunted self-esteem, but more than she could have foreseen during their first sessions together a year prior.

“How have you been? Doing well, I hope.”

“Doing decent. A lot’s happened and it’s kept me busy.”

“Are you still abstaining from writing?”

“Up until I got back from my…vacation, yes.” The writer replied. “But I got antsy, needed to put pen to paper.”

“And? How was it?”

She remained silent, folding her arms across her chest and leaning back into the chair. “I wanted to write – that has to stand for something, doesn’t it?”

“Did you enjoy it?”

“I dreaded the thought of finishing the thing.”

“In fear of not having anything else to do afterwards?”

“In fear of having  _ too much _ to do.”

Nakamura scribbled something down, drew a circle around it and then a long line to connect it somewhere else on the hidden page. “But you enjoyed the writing aspect of the process? Because if I’m correct in remembering, that had been one of your main concerns when we began a year ago.”

She shrugged. “It wasn’t a bad experience – a bit of a missed one, sure – but nothing too revolutionary.”

“Therapy isn’t designed to create revolutions, (Surname)-san, all we do is focus on the realistic steps to recovery.” Nakamura pushed her glasses further up the bridge of her nose. “And we’re getting somewhere, it seems. What did you write about?”

“Nothing like ‘Observations’ if that’s what you’re wondering.”

“That’s a shame,” she began, “I was excited to hear what else you had to say about Oikawa Tooru.”

(Name) dropped her head with an exasperated sigh. “Did everyone hear about that stupid rumour?”

“My niece told me about it, visibly very upset her celebrity crush was allegedly taken.”

“Neither of us are that great, she needs to hike up her expectations,” the writer dismissed.

“If not about your muse-” (Name) forced herself not to cringe at the word being so realistically associated with her neighbour “-then what did you write about?”

The (h/c)-haired women thought for a moment, attempting to define the words she had penned down on to paper not too long ago. She slowly lifted her head up, chin high and gaze firm.

“Everything I’ve learnt so far, and the mistakes I know I will probably make in the next few turns of my life,” she determined. “A mix of what I did, what people think I should do, and what I want – maybe.”

The therapist nodded, tapping the tip of her pen on the wood.

“How’s your father?”

The writer blinked, but nodded at the question.

“Fine, I guess…” She coughed into a clenched fist. “I, uh, went home for Obon this year and visited my dad and grandparents… I don’t think I told you about that last time but, yeah. We didn’t talk much, really, just the basic pleasantries.”

(Name) finally looked up and locked gazes with the older woman, her own eyes mimicking the confused expression on her face.

“Really?” Came her reply. (Name) nodded slowly. “You… went for closure?”

“Impossible, I know,” the (h/c)-haired female fiddled with her fingers, “but you gotta do what you gotta do, I guess...”

“Why?”

_ Good question. _

Four months on and she still didn’t have answers, or direction at the very least. The Obon trip itself had been spur of the moment, but in hindsight it had not been as egregious as she anticipated it to be. Sure, her dad was still as dick-ish, if not because of their very last encounter, but because of the sudden arrival and her forced distance from him. There hadn’t been a verbal apology shared between them, and yet (Name) felt that there was some pebble of common ground between them.

“It’s not to forgive him,” she determined, “but if the parts I hate of myself came from him then shouldn’t I at least acknowledge that?”

Nakamura remained silent, gaze trained on the writer and penetrating her very being, as if waiting for her to crack a joke and erase all signs of positivity from her aura.

But she didn’t.

And it dawned on her that (Surname) (Name) was  _ genuine _ about moving on.

The revelation gave her whiplash, the tingling of something lingered on the back of her neck.

For the first time in all of their sessions, (Name) witnessed a soft smile appear on Nakamura’s face, one not laced with mirth or amusement at the words of the writer, but a genuine one that gleamed with something similar to what Makki wore during business meetings.

“Perhaps we can start spacing these sessions out a little more, maybe once every three months from the start of the new year?” The older woman proposed, clipping her pen under the clamp of the board. She ignored the sudden look of confusion that adorned her client’s face. “Compared to where you started a year ago, your sudden compulsion to be better is admirable. And you’ve actively begun implementing changes to your life, albeit in minute ways, but there is some progression that is occurring, and you admit to seeing them, even if it’s a little bit. I do believe there are still issues we can discuss, but if you continue down the path you are travelling, then my ongoing presence may not be entirely necessary. Especially considering that the progress occurred without my guidance.”

There was a stagnant silence between them, only broken by something akin to a sigh escaping the writer’s lips.

“Wanna get rid of me that badly, do ya Doc?”

The therapist arched a brow at her. “To me it sounds like  _ you _ want to continue with therapy, (Surname)-san.”

“Will you hold it against me?”

Their gazes met again, Nakamura staring inquisitively at the woman. She narrowed her eyes ever so slightly, trying to get some sort of read on the enigma that was (Surname). She came up blank.

“I have issues.” (Name) announced, filling in the gaps. “More than the burnout.” Doctor Nakamura nodded in agreement.

“A number of them, yes.”

“And I’d…’ The writer swallowed the lump in her throat. “I think it’d… It’d be stupid of me to ignore them when the path life is taking me down requires me to address them before anything else important to my day-to-day functioning is infringed.”

Her shoulders lifted into a half-hearted shrug.

“Acceptance is the fourth step to stop being an ass, Doc.” Her client stated. “And in hindsight, that should have been the first step all along.”

Nakamura’s smile widened a little more, before she bobbed her head in agreement. “Typically yes, but I don’t doubt the guidelines you’ve made for yourself… And neither should you.”

 

* * *

 

After that night a little over week ago, Oikawa began spending more time in her apartment.

It wasn’t unwelcome, per say, but strange to say in the least.

If the setter wasn’t waiting for her to arrive home, then he was somehow already  _ inside _ her apartment. Makki and Mattsun hadn’t been around their building in a while – busy preparing for the encroaching holiday season to face the music of their families – so she couldn’t necessarily blame them for his sudden intrusions when they hadn’t been around to enable him.

And surely it wasn’t her fault either, because she kept her front door locked.

And she was sure Oikawa wasn’t stupid enough to bridge the space between the balconies and try to jimmy open the sliding door in her lounge.

(After the third day she had stumbled across the setter inside, she made sure the balcony door was locked, just in case he  _ was _ stupid enough to try it.

He was still inside her apartment the next day she arrived home.)

It wasn’t as if she was out of the house for long periods of time either; often a quick run down to konbini for snacks, or a stop in at Kodansha to receive updates on sales or publicity opportunities.

But he was there anyway, somehow, someway. The entire situation was confusing, but not in the sense of the word that made one’s head spin, rather the subtle off-putting atmosphere of a new presence.

Of the days when Bokuto Koutarou had been active in her life, he hadn’t been as inquisitive about her writing and works. To a degree, neither was Oikawa, but the mere presence of the setter in her apartment while the landscape was littered with post-its displaying keywords, themes, and large sections of dialogue for her current work-in-progress was neither a comfort or a hassle. She often caught his gaze wandering and following what her pen inked on to the scrap pieces of paper, or lingered near a wall on his way to the bathroom or a kitchen. As if any one of those moments in time would help him glean a bit more into the enigma she knew he thought she was.

Which didn’t bother her after the nth time she had found him frozen in place, or rifling through the reject pile of notes.

Because her biggest concern was the issue of  _ them _ .

There wasn’t a clear definition of what  _ they _ were – together  _ or _ individually for that matter. Neither she nor Oikawa bothered to clarify, as if their kiss and confession was enough to establish the foundations for whatever the future proposed.

‘It’s not just that night,’ she told herself one cold evening after Oikawa returned to his apartment next door, ‘there’s a good year of history… even if it starts out rocky. We don’t need labels, we do what’s right for us.’

_ Take it slow _ had been Oikawa’s mantra after the first night her stayed over.  _ We see where the pieces fall. _

As if they needed any more pieces to fit into their picture.

“Hey.”

(Name) blinked out of her stupor and swivelled her head to the right, coming face to face with the man occupying her mind. His fingers prodded her forehead, pushing her back ever so slightly.

They were sat in her lounge, both tucked under the kotatsu while the TV played some rom-com for them, empty containers of take out littered between them. That had been the scenery for the past few encounters – if one could even call them ‘encounters’. “Mhm?”

“I’m gonna be heading back to Miyagi for the holidays.”

The writer blinked at him once before nodding. “Cute. You heading out with the Idiots the weekend before?”

The setter shook his head and shifted his weight back, so that his shoulders leant against the front of the couch.

“Normally Iwa-chan drives us in a couple days before Christmas.”

Her brow furrowed in confusion at the statement, the insinuation that things – despite how drab Iwaizumi had made it out to her – were more normal than where they had left off.

“He’s talking to you again…?”

“He came up to me after my last match,” Oikawa replied. “Asked if we were still on for this year. I said yeah, because nothing should’ve changed for us, y’know?”

A smile inched its way onto her face, and Oikawa found himself grinning at her response.

“He’s a good driver.”

“The best, if he had a car back home then he would have totally driven  _ everywhere _ he could have.”

“It’s good you’re talking again,” she mused, “he said he wouldn’t do it until after your team won the Emperor’s Cup this season. Dunno how sports works but from how he said it, it sounded like it was guaranteed.”

“Iwa-chan talks a big game, but he’s a softie,” he retorted.

“How he’s still single baffles me.”

“Did it baffle you that  _ I _ was still single?”

“Considering the fact that I know you better than I know me, no.”

His foot nudged her shin underneath the kotatsu, prodding the relaxed muscle as he frowned at her statement.

“Exhibit A – get your gross feet off me.”

With a smirk forming on his face, he raised his left leg and locked it around her right one, pulling them together with his knee while his other foot continued to nudge her. She sighed and gave up, continuing to scan over the words she written a few days prior.

“What are your plans for the holidays, then?” The male asked, propping one elbow on to the table and letting his palm cradle his chin.

“Work.” She gestured around the room. He frowned at her.

“That’s not very festive.”

“Tis the season.”

“Not going home?”

There was a second of silence, one that swirled around them in wisps. She shook her head. “I already went back for Obon, that should’ve been enough for one year.”

The unamused expression that adorned the setter’s face did not go unnoticed.

“I sent him a couple copies of the book, signed, so that he could give them as presents to associates. He hasn’t gotten back to me so I’m pretty sure that means he’s unbothered at my lack of initiative in going home.” (Name) assured, monotone and vaguely bored at discussing the topic of her father. It was enough to soothe Oikawa’s disapproval.

“Sounds like a simple man.” He said.

“It makes for a simple relationship that only makes me want to rip my hair out  _ half _ of the time I think about it.”

“As long as it’s only half… God knows I would rather die than be seen with someone with worse hair than me.”

She felt his fingers tangle into the ends of her hair, working out the kinks and knots that had formed over the course of her day. Oikawa had become more touchy in the evenings they spent together, perhaps a side effect of needing to make up for lost time – or a depravity of affection he felt he needed to fill for them both. Again, it wasn’t anything bad; merely a strange outcome in the process of what they were becoming.

And then there was nothing verbal between them. (Name) continued to write and scrawl ideas and scenes on to half torn paper, while Oikawa continued to thread his fingers through her hair, up to her scalp and back down to the nape of her neck.

It was nice, if but for a moment. The serenity of the moment was ruined when she could feel his gaze burn into the side of her skull, heat slowly pooling to her temple.

“You don’t have to cancel plans for me.” (Name) said, scribbling out one of the more jarring sentences of the current piece. Oikawa shrugged dismissively, the action barely being noticed from the corner of her eye.

“I don’t have to go home either.”

“But you  _ like _ Miyagi,” she countered. “I’m not too fond of what’s down Osaka-way. It’s pretty, sure, but it’s not for me.”

His fingers paused their ministrations.

“Are you-”

“Absolutely positive that I can handle the holidays on my own?” The writer turned to him, (e/c) eyes matching the concern tinted chocolate ones of the setter. “Yes, I am. Don’t compromise your own individualism for a shithead like me, yeah? M’not worth it.”

“Is it really individualism when we’re in this together?”

(Name) pulled her lips into a line. “Again, is that really worth it?”

“Is anything?”

His fingers stopped moving against her scalp and they continued to stare at each other, unblinking, as they tried to read the micromovements within each other’s façade. Oikawa leaned a bit closer. (Name) narrowed her eyes.

“You sure you’ll be alright…?” The words were a soft whisper, like a breeze in the late winter time, or a wave of wind that rolled in from a calm bay. She nodded.

“I’ve been fine every other year I’ve lived in Tokyo,” she retorted, “s’not like I don’t have anything to do.”

Another bout of silence filled the air before the brunet nodded in defeat. A silent “If you say so” emanated from his body – not condescending, but trusting (or as close as trusting as the two could really  _ be _ with each other). She nodded back, before letting her head swivel back down to her work.

Oikawa’s gaze lingered on her form before he redirected his attention to the TV screen in front of him.

He didn’t move his fingers from her hair.

 

* * *

 

There were times that muscle memory had done Bokuto Koutarou well. What he lacked in general academic proficiency, he made up for in physical skill and sporting prowess.

But there were days were his strengths caused him too much pain. 

The walk to (Surname) (Name)’s home was something he never thought he could hate. Not explicitly.

But every twist and turn was agony. And even though his feet demanded he head back the way he came, he knew he needed to see her. Even if they were not on the same terms he originally wanted when he engaged their relationship -  _ friendship _ \- it needed to happen.

Akaashi was right.

He needed to move on, to stop avoiding the inevitable and just  _ do _ the one thing he subconsciously knew he needed.

Let go.

It’s better this way.

Even if it doesn’t feel like it is, it is.

It’s just gotta take a little time.

Let go.

And letting go began with getting answers, enough of them to satiate the bubbling confusion that remained within the darkest recesses of his mind.

Akaashi had offered to go with – to mediate, he said – but Bo knew this was something he needed to do alone. That was the problem, after all, his desire to be taken seriously meant that he needed to take matters into his own hands actively, to do things that would hurt him even if every fibre of his being told him not to follow through. Maturity, he deemed, was something he needed desperately.

And perhaps that was where he and the writer deviated.

Sure, she was still childish in ways he was not, and sure she was flawed in ways he didn’t see as problematic – but there was a sense of direction and assurance that (Name) had about things – most things – in her life and Bokuto did not.

He needn’t look far for evidence either. (Name) had been able to seemingly move on from whatever they had together, and kept up with a career she didn’t necessarily love nor hate. He, on the other hand, performed well because of expectations but was still consumed with every  _ if _ and  _ but _ and  _ when _ that forced doubt on to the peace he had once known. Dwelling, it seemed, was one of the first parameters of maturity.

Bo stirred from his stupor at the sight of the apartment’s main entrance, and as he entered he turned away from the elevators and opted for the staircase.

More time to think, he determined. While he was ditching individual training to confront his demons, he thought it necessary to atone in the simplest way he could; physical exertion.

But the fourteen flights of stairs came to an end much faster than he had anticipated – something he remembered as a common occurrence for him – and in less than twenty strong strides, he was face to face with the door of (Surname) (Name)’s apartment.

With a deep sigh and a tightly clenched fist, he knocked three times against the cold wood, and waited for signs of her presence.

The distance click of a light switch was followed by the faint sounds of a sliding door running on its tracks. Another ten seconds passed. The doorknob jiggled, and though Bo prepared himself to meet the (e/c) eyes he had come to adore he had not anticipated coiffed hair and the hardened gaze of Oikawa Tooru.

For a moment the spiker thought he counted wrong. It wouldn’t have been the first time, really. But sure enough, the number to the apartment was the one he remembered (Name) occupied, so that meant-

“The rumours were true.”

Oikawa blinked and stood stock still. The two of them hadn’t talked since… Jakarta, was it? They had fought against each other not long ago, sure, but no verbal quips or confrontation had taken place. And now they were forced to talk again, over this situation that had awkwardly hung between them for months?

Fate was a cruel mistress.

He moved first, slowly winding his forearm and bicep around the door in order to prop it open with his shoulder blade. When Bokuto failed to respond, Oikawa folded his arms over his chest and leant back, flush against the wood.

“Good evening to you too, Tarou-chan.”

“You and (Name) are together, then?” He ignored him. Instead of the malice Oikawa anticipated, he was met with a monotonous, dull tone, something akin to defeat, but not really.

And rather than the tone of his friend’s voice being off-putting, it was the phrasing for his question.

He wasn’t sure how to reply.

How was he when the concept of  _ together _ had yet to be established other than ‘being mutually near each other for a long period of time’.

Though they were only – what was the right word? –  _ exclusive(?) _ for no more than a few weeks, no one had come close to questioning or prying into their private affairs. As far as Japan was concerned, Oikawa Tooru and (Surname) (Name) were acquaintances and nothing more.

As much as he wanted to distort and stretch what little truth he had, he couldn’t. This was Bokuto Koutarou.

“It’s hard to explain.” Oikawa settled, shoving his hands into the pockets of his sweatpants.

It was enough to satiate the spiker, if but for a moment.

“Is (Name) here?”

The setter shook his head. “She took our friends out for dinner to celebrate their engagement.”

Bokuto refrained from wincing at the ‘our’ in his statement.

“You didn’t go with?”

“I just got back from a check-up about my knee, m’not really in the mood to go out after all that.”

The spiker nodded, and Oikawa could feel the tension permeate in the air and slowly creep into his lungs and constrict them from the inside. The look on the other man’s face was unreadable, and he could only imagine the monologue running through his mind.

Bo’s head spun, a million different avenues and possibilities flashed in the forefront of his mind as he tried to reason with reality.

Because why was he there in the first place? Had he really come for closure? He convinced himself of it, sure, but with the acclaimed setter in front of him there was a small, yet disturbingly loud part of him that demanded he keep fighting. This is Oikawa Tooru – this was the same guy who made (Name) go through the pain of feeling alone for so long and yet-

(Name) had forgiven him in some capacity, had moved on from the past to some varying degree of success which led to them being together – or some variant of the concept. He should be happy for her, that she was maturing and forgiving one of his closest friends for fucking up in the first place.

But he wasn’t.

_ Why wasn’t he? _

He felt his lips get pulled into a frown. If he had really been there for closure, he considered, he would have called in advanced. Bokuto would’ve at least tried to get in contact with her – either through his own number or by passing on a message through Hanamaki… Hell, he was sure he could have gotten her landline through the phone book – that’s how her dad had found her earlier that year.

But he didn’t.

And that meant that maybe he wasn’t really ready to move on.

Because there, in the haze of his own confusion and sadness, remained the lingering desire for  _ her _ and her  _ alone _ .

Sure, it was better to move on, and moving on actually meant finishing whatever they were face to face but perhaps he wasn’t ready. If there was still some part of him – no matter how large in comparison to every other reasonable part of him – demanded her attention, demanded that he be the thing to fix her, demanded that he swooped in and won (Name) over and away from a guy like Oikawa Tooru then maybe he still had a lot more growing up to do.

He needed to be selfish too, sure.

But selfishness was, strangely, a two way street.

To be selfish meant that you either took what you need in order to be happy, or you took what you didn’t need in an attempt to be better.

There was a fine line between them. Bokuto knew that now.

And whatever possibility that lay with (Surname) (Name) was something he thought he needed, and really didn’t.

So that meant-

“Tarou-chan-”

“I’m fine.” He coughed out, lifting his chin so the two stared each other dead in the eye. “Don’t tell her that I stopped by, yeah?”

Oikawa frowned. “Wouldn’t you want her to know?”

“Of course,” Bo agreed quickly, the eagerness he had long buried slowly resurfacing as they spoke, “but things are different know, aren’t they?”

“Are they?”

“It would only be hard to explain if you really didn’t know what was happening between you, or you didn’t want to hurt my feelings.”

The setter cocked his head to the side. The spiker looked away for a moment.

“I think I was too hasty in trying to come here to talk… I need more time to, y’know, think.” He lifted a hand to scratch the nape of his neck. “I don’t think I’m ready for whatever answers (Name) has for me. Thought I was, but seeing you here made me a little angrier than I’d wanna admit.”

Oikawa unfolded his arms and let them hang limply by his sides.

“Just don’t tell her I came by,” he repeated. “I’d… I’d rather not have her dwell on me any more than she probably already has this year. Especially when I’ve been… I mean, I wasn’t that great in the last few months we had, I guess.”

Bokuto shrugged in what could only be described as defeat, and looked back at Oikawa with a new found determination in his eyes.

“So I guess what I’m saying is look after her.”

Oikawa nodded at the demanded.

“I will.”

“Don’t fuck it up-”

“I-”

“For  _ both _ of you.”

“I won’t.”

“I’ll fucking spike your ass straight to hell if you so much as hurt her like you did this year.”

The threat stung, because there existed a truth Oikawa felt radiate from his friend. He had a little more agency in whatever  _ they _ were.

“I’ll do everything in my power to be a decent-”

The word stopped itself from slipping from his oesophagus. Bokuto didn’t need him to finish the sentence.

_ Friend. _

_ Partner _ .

_ Boyfriend. _

_ Lover. _

And there was nothing between them, nothing but silent and fast fading animosity replaced by regret from either side.

It was then Oikawa lifted his arms out, brandishing his fingers and gesturing for the spiker in. He obliged, and the two wound their arms around each other and hugged, just as quiet as the atmosphere around them.

Oikawa felt Bo shake in their embrace, as if he were physically restraining himself from feeling anything in that moment.

Bokuto Koutarou was a strong guy – and it was strange for Oikawa to see him as something other than.

“I’m sorry man…” The brunet whispered. He felt the spiker shake his head.

“Nah, it’s my fault Tooru… Don’t worry about it.”

“Not about (Name)… About us, and what-”

“Like I said, it’s not your fault.”

The brunet frowned, continuing to rub the monochrome-haired male’s back in small, slow circles. It was another minute gone when the former found his voice again.

“I think you would benefit from being a little more selfish about your needs, Tarou-chan.”

Oikawa missed the wiry smile that adorned the spiker’s face.

“I tried that this year… Look at where it got me.”

They stood like that a little longer, letting whatever anger and frustration the either of them had towards each other dissipate into the air, like fog being drowned up by the midday sun, or ice on a windscreen melting away from the heat of the day.

When they pulled apart, Oikawa swore he saw a glint of something in his friend’s eyes. Glassy. Tears, perhaps, that the other man refused to let spill in front of him. The latter opened his mouth a few times, and he watched the words bloom and decay over and over until the spiker had finally made whatever peace he could.

“Do you…” He coughed into the back of his hand. “Do you at least love her?”

Oikawa felt his eyes widen ever so slightly before he relaxed again, letting is shoulders roll back and forcing him to open his stance a little more.

That question had been on his mind for most of the passing days. And even though it manifested into other forms, the answer he had stumbled across was something he knew Bo would not necessarily appreciate.

“Neither of us fall in love that easily.”

There was a strange glimmer in his friend’s eyes, one Bokuto immediately understood and felt poke at the one sliver of doubt that was hidden in the deepest recesses of his mind.

_ Did you? _

So he nodded, not in explicit understanding but in something akin to an “That’s okay, for now”. Because (Name) took things slow, and maybe Oikawa could give that to her in his own Shitty-kawa way.

And that was what he needed.

For now, at least.

At least until he was sure that he didn’t want the writer in his life the way he had been sure of over the past few months.

 

* * *

 

Three days before Christmas, Oikawa decided it was appropriate for him to camp out in the writer’s apartment while he waited for his best friend to appear.

Which would’ve been fine, had it not been for the fact that the setter woke her up at the ass-crack of dawn and proceeded to force her to keep him company until the afternoon

“I’m convinced there’s something wrong with your apartment.” She announced from the kitchen, eyes trained on her neighbour, who was sprawled out across the couch, a plethora of pillows propping his head and torso up.

“I’ve just finally come to understand why Mattsun enjoys spending time here as opposed to my apartment.”

“And the reason?”

“I’m making the person with money pay for my expenses.”

Lips pulled into a bored expression, (Name) rolled her eyes before continuing to make the coffee he had requested.

It was closer to midday now, and Oikawa had yet to move from the position he had assumed from the moment he arrived. (Name) had ignored him for the most part, returning to her bed to sleep until her usual wake-up time at 11am. And while she anticipated him to have gotten bored, Oikawa portrayed himself as anything but. He had been waiting and ready for her to be Okay™ for interaction, and teetered on pleasant in requesting things the way a stranger would in a new acquaintances home.

A different experience from ones gone by, sure, but like those it wasn’t as out of place as she had anticipated to be.

When his drink was done, she sought to carry it over carefully. She avoided the setter’s suitcase where it lay haphazardly on the floor and continued forward. The kotatsu remained between the TV and couch, and (Name) set his mug down just close enough for him to reach.

“If there’s nothing else, m’gonna go work on my book in my study.” She announced, wiping the imaginary dust off of her hands.

“Just work on it out here.” Oikawa frowned, shifting up a bit further on to the mountain he made.

“That’s not a part of the process.”

“And the other times you worked out here were?”

“If I’m  _ drafting _ yes, but if I’m  _ finalising _ then it happens in there.” She explained. “It’s two different states of mind – I can be distracted for the first bit, but not the second.”

The writer didn’t miss the smirk that appeared on her neighbour’s face. “So you admit I’m distracting?”

“Your face is an eyesore I’d prefer not to deal with, yes.”

“You say that as an insult but all I hear is a compliment.” The impish grin widened. “That’s cute.”

“If that helps you sleep at night, then believe the lie all you want.”

And then she turned, ready to stride towards her study before she felt it. A hand wrapped itself around her right wrist, and she returned her face the man who looked at her with a look that bordered on hopeful.

“Nap time.” Oikawa murmured, tugging at her arm and forcing her closer to him. She bent her knees and sat on the edge of the couch, arm still awkwardly held in place.

“You’re leaving soon.”

“I’m aware.” He replied. “And I’ve been waiting a good six hours for you to be fully awake to spend time with me.”

She narrowed her eyes. “You aren’t allowed to guilt me in my own home.”

“Watch me.”

He tugged again, and again, and again. And it was on the fourth time that she relented, letting his hands guide her body down.

(Name) landed with a soft thud on her stomach, half of her body resting on the plush cushioning of the couch while the other half was strewn across Oikawa’s torso. He hooked a leg around one of her own, tangling them together while the hand that had grabbed her wrist snaked itself across her shoulder blades. Her right arm laid across his chest and hooked across his left shoulder while her left was tucked between their bodies, a clenched fist keep her entire weight from resting on him.

A few minutes past before she felt his chest rumble underneath hers.

“See, isn’t this nice?”

“I’m being held here against my will.”

“I’m still not hearing a ‘no’.”

Oikawa felt her sigh against him. “I’m probably heavy.”

“Of course you are.” He answered, and (Name) felt his free hand pull her left out from under her, letting her full weight rest against him. “It’s unbearable, really.”

“As long as you’re suffering as much as me, then we’re good.”

Slowly, so slowly, she felt her fist unfurl itself with the help of Oikawa’s long fingers. They took care to pry it open, and then his palm slid into place, followed by the slotting of their fingers together.

Oikawa clenched his fingers around the back of her hand, squeezing slightly.

“You’ll be okay alone…?”

She shrugged against him. “It’s no different from every other year.”

“It’s kind of different now though.”

Oikawa angled his head down to get a better look at her, just in time with (Name) angling her own to get a better read on him. She furrowed her brow.

“Don’t even think about bailing on Iwaizumi.”

“I wasn’t.”

“You were, I’m good at reading you.” The hand that was on his shoulder pinched at the skin there. “If I say I’ll be fine, you take my word. A holiday is just another day, and I’ve gotten through thousands of those already.”

Before he could answer, there was a chime in the air – the sound of a new text message arriving on someone’s phone. (Name) looked at him expectantly, and Oikawa moved first. Retracting the hand on her waist, he retrieved his phone from his pocket, checking the new message displayed there.

The familiar contact details of Iwaizumi Hajime were displayed before him.

“He’s pulling into our street now.”

“Then you should probably meet him in the lobby or something.”

“What if I don’t want to?”

“My elbow could probably reach your dick in this position-”

“I’m going, I’m going!” He relented, sitting up and forcing the writer off of his chest. She sat up on her knees, just barely enough room for him to untangle the mess he had created and slid off the sofa, letting his feet touch the floor.

When he was out of the way, she flopped back on to her stomach. Oikawa frowned.

“Are you not gonna see me out the door for the last time this year?”

“Well I would have, but I’ve gotten tired ever since someone decided to enforce nap time.” The (h/c)-haired woman cocked a brow in his direction. He rolled his eyes in response.

“Hospitality at it’s finest, nothing but the best for the soul trapped by the benevolent (Surname) (Name).” Oikawa declared, throwing his arms up dramatically and letting them stretch out the numb muscles in his back.

“See, you’re getting it. Only took you a couple days.”

He sat back down, nudging her body further and trapped her between the confines of the furniture and his body. 

“Don’t miss me too much, yeah?”

“How can I when I’m too busy relishing the thought of you being away?” She sassed, smirking at the setter.

He hummed wordlessly, and instead wrapped his index finger and thumb around her chin, anchoring her in place. Slowly he pressed forward, and let their lips brush together, a feather-light kiss.

When they pulled apart, their noses were barely touching.

“Try not to dream of me too much.”

“I only have nightmares when it comes to you.”

“That’s a sweet way of saying I keep you up at night.”

“You wish Tooru.”

Time faltered for a second.

And he grinned a little.

“Sweet nightmares, (Name).”

And then he was standing up to leave, the faint ghost of his touch the only thing lingering not only on her skin, but in the air. Oikawa stooped to grab the handle of his suitcase before he lugged it towards the genkan. A few seconds passed and the pair of indoor slippers he was wearing were thrown back down the corridor to spite her.

(Name) refrained from getting up to throw them back at him.

If she did, Oikawa would consider it a win.

He wasn’t allowed to win with her.

The writer waited until she heard the door click shut before she slammed her head into the mountain of pillows the setter once occupied, a growl mixed with a sigh escaped her lips and was promptly muffled by the material she was drowning herself in.

And then she remembered the coffee request. As she turned her head to eye the mug of now lukewarm liquid, she couldn’t help but think maybe Oikawa Tooru was more devious than she had originally anticipated.

 

* * *

 

The first half an hour in the car together was uncharacteristically quiet. In years gone by they would’ve have talked about one thing or another in order to kill the time. Iwaizumi had always been the one to engage conversations of substance.

So it was no surprise for the ex-captain of Seijoh when the silence became to much for the journalist to bear. What did surprise him, however, was the topic.

“You and (Surname), huh?”

Oikawa turned to face him. “Huh?”

“Mattsun told me when he called about the engagement… And the fact all of Tokyo was talking about it.”

He scratched the back of his head. “It’s more complex than whatever the Hopeless Couple told you.” He shrugged. “I don’t hate her.”

“Do you really think you ever did?”

Oikawa didn’t answer. These days, answers concerning whatever they were had become almost impossible to fathom and comprehend, let alone answer with plain facts. He was sure that (Surname) had trouble as well, and she had a better grip with descriptions that he ever had.

In his seemingly stunned silence, Iwaizumi continued.

“You should’ve invited her.” He didn’t bring his eyes off the road. “(Surname), you should’ve invited her. It would’ve been nice.”

The setter scoffed.

“And introduce the woman who has agreed to-”  _ date me(?), be my girlfriend(?), be my life partner(?) _ “- _ co-exist _ with me for an undetermined amount of time to a family dying to see me with something other than a volleyball in my hands? No thanks.”

“She could’ve stayed with me. Mum would’ve loved another mouth to feed. And she’s way better car-company that you are.”

“Iwa-chan!”

“She has good conversations.”

“She’s a  _ writer _ .”

“ _ Exactly _ .”

Iwaizumi snorted at the frown that adorned his best friend’s face. And for a moment, the latter was distracted by the atmosphere, but not long enough to dismiss the curious look that was hidden behind his eyes. The thought crossed his mind – that maybe he was still hurt about the reality that his feelings would never be returned, that rejection was not an easy pill to swallow.

A familiar pang of guilt throbbed in his stomach.

“Hey-”

“Don’t you dare apologise.” Iwaizumi deadpanned, immediately honing in to the tension the other man was slowly dispensing into the cabin. “I told you I don’t need sympathy. We’re good now, just like we’ve always been. I told you my feelings not for closure or for a rejection, I had shit I felt guilty for and needed to get off my chest.”

“And then you ignored me after saying you wanted nothing to change.” Oikawa accused, making the ravenet nod in defeat.

“I did do that, but the thought of being normal with you so close after info-dumping my feelings on you would have been selfish. So I kept my distance. I just needed time. I think it did me some good, don’t you? I mean, I’m bench-pressing almost double the amount I was when I started university. Couldn’t do that while I was busy thinking about you.”

“A ‘goodbye’ would have been nice.”

“ _ You _ didn’t need the ‘goodbye’,  _ I _ did.” Oikawa barely caught on the way Iwaizumi’s fingers tightened around the steering wheel. “You’ve never needed to move, so you have  _ no idea _ what that shit does to you. But if I ever wanted to get back to the way things were with us before my confession, then I needed to completely abandon any thought that made me believe  _ we _ were still possible. You can’t do that while you’re tryna pretend nothing’s happened - life doesn’t work that way.”

For a moment, Oikawa thought the world shifted. No longer was he in the cabin of Iwaizumi’s car. Instead he was standing in the doorway of his neighbour’s apartment, face to face with the man who had tried so desperately to hold on to the  _ something _ they could have been and failed.

And though he got it, in some bare minimum form of ‘getting it’, it didn’t feel like enough.

Not for him. 

When the silence crept back, the brunet pushed it away as aggressively as he could.

“You  _ sure _ don’t need some weird long-winded talk about closure and what we really mean to each other? Cause it’s going around, there’s nothing to be ashamed about if you need to rant or vent or lecture.” He twisted his torso a little to try and face the other man. “It feels like we should talk or something… y’know?”

“I’ve spent 23 years being real with everything we were and everything we were probably never going to be.” He confirmed, smiling softly and glancing out of the corner of his eye. “I’m fine. Trust me.”

And then there was nothing for a while, nothing but the syncopated breathing from both men and the stern and analytical gaze that pierced the side of Iwaizumi’s face. Oikawa needed to be sure things were okay between them, that he and Iwa-chan and Makki-Makki and Mattsun would be fine with each other while the progression of life continued to throw its worst at the four of them.

While part of him wanted to know more, the other part of him held back. Iwa-chan was the one who pressed and pressed without any semblance of decency because that’s what Oikawa had needed for so long. With the tables turned, it couldn’t be that way. Iwaizumi wanted routine and normality between them.

So that’s what he got.

Iwa-chan wanted trust, he would get trust. Because Oikawa knew that he would make himself known if he really weren’t fine.

Oikawa Tooru had spent a little over two decades trusting Iwaizumi Hajime implicitly – with no restraints or fear of convictions surrounding their circumstances – what was another decade or six?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so that happened...  
> and now there is only ONE CHAPTER LEFT can yall believe it? I cant believe it? ive been highkey emotional about this entire process, honestly.  
> sentimentalism aside, I still have things to do in order to be satisfied with ending 'A Thousand and One Nights'. And I need your help for it.
> 
> (1) While I've heard you throughout the story and replied to all your comments, I also wanna know what you think now that ATAON is (essentially) over because a lot happened and I wasn't exactly explicit with giving answers because the story was still in progress. So I've decided to hold a Q&A in order to directly answer every question you lovely readers still have lingering in your heads. Questions can be about the story itself, meanings, characters, headcannons, the process I took to writing this - you name it, I'll answer! The more oddly specific the better because I have waaaay too many fun facts and secrets about the book I haven't divulged to anyone.
> 
> (2) As well as that, I'm excited to announce that this won't be the only story you see from me because I have plans to post another story or two once ATAON is completed... I just need your help in deciding what comes next. 
> 
> If you [ click here ](https://goo.gl/forms/gczOEhWFUHqtpB4B3), you'll be taken to a survey that will let you answer questions about my next few works AND submit questions for the Q&A. The survey will be available for the next two weeks after the posting of this chapter. The Q&A itself will be posted along with the FINAL UPDATE of ATAON scheduled to be released on the 19th August AEST. As well as that, the results of the next story (or stories??) will also be announced, along with an ETA and a sneak peak of the blurb!
> 
> (and if you didn't submit your questions before then, ill still happily answer them in the comments :)) )
> 
> TL;DR - to participate in the Q&A and to help me choose the next story I post on AO3, [ click here ](https://goo.gl/forms/gczOEhWFUHqtpB4B3) to fill out and submit the survey. You have two weeks from posting this to fill it out, so be sure to act fast!


	30. What is Written

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Think of my fatigue.”
> 
> “You can sleep on the train.”
> 
> “You’d leave me there if I did.”
> 
> “I hate how know me so well.”
> 
> “Makes you wanna rethink this whole thing, doesn’t it?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was so vague with the info and background details this time...but I mean, you can google that stuff yourself right?

_January, 2019_

Unlike other years, the car ride home from the Sendai was not limited to the infamous setter-ace alum of Aoba Johsai.

_A rarity, yes._

_A pleasure?_

“Oiks move your seat up.”

“My seat is all the way forward, Makki.”

“I have very gangly legs.”

“You’ll have a very gangly face if you keep asking me to move into space I don’t have.”

“Ladies, ladies, you’re both short.”

“Shut up Mattsun, you discount Tokyo Tower.”

“Hey! Only I can call my fiancé shitty insults like that!”

“I’d appreciate it if _none_ of you called me Tokyo Tower. I’m obviously more exotic – like the actual Eiffel Tower or something.”

“You’re about as exotic as Oikawa – so like, negative digits.”

“For someone who works in literature, Makki, you sure do suck at insults~”

“Holy fuck, if all three of you don’t shut up I will stop this car and make us camp on the side of the road for the night!”

 _Not so much_.

The other three men all turned their heads to the driver’s seat, no longer engaged in the argument they had held.

“Is dear ol’ Hajime-kun mad we’re talking about height?”

“Don’t mind Haji-chan, you’ll reach the top shelf some day!”

“Hey Iwa-chan, we should get you some of those shoe inserts that add a few centimetres to-”

The sound of short screeching permeated into the cabin. The whole body of the car jerked, throwing Iwaizumi’s passengers against the restraints of their seatbelts and forcing out a strange litany of strange sounds as their throats slammed into the fabric.

As their backs slammed back into their seats, the car continued forward and the ravenet stared blankly out the windscreen, as if he didn’t try and choke all three of his best friends simultaneously.

“And this is why we don’t travel with you guys,” Makki mumbled, rubbing his throat with a frown, “Oikawa enjoys being an accomplice to murder.”

“How is this _my_ fault? You started it!”

Iwaizumi felt a hand wrap around the back of his neck.

“Don’t even think about it…” Mattsun’s voice was low and gravelling. Iwaizumi remained unnerved.

“We have to be in this car for another two hours, if you don’t want me to try and kill us then _behave_.”

Before the concept of silence could engulf them, Oikawa snorted into the air.

“Whatever you say mother~”

The spiker’s head whipped around to the passenger side. The occupant lifted both hands in submission, quelling the slow brewing rage behind the driver’s eyes.

“Besides, if you idiots want something to keep yourselves occupied then maybe you can discuss more pressing matters other than Makki’s bean pole legs.”

“A very good point, Haji-kun.” Mattsun quirked a brow at the ace and then quickly shifted his attention to the brunet in the passenger’s seat. “So like, _how_ did you win over (Name)? Was there a monetary bribe, or are you just _that good_ \- _”_

“Please shut up right now.” Oikawa interjected raising a hand and letting it run over his face.

“No, no, I wanna hear this too.” Makki agreed, a frown adorning his handsome face. “Cause as far as I’m concerned there is something going on I never knew about – and as (Name)’s best friend-”

“Pretty sure _I’m_ her be-”

“I should have been informed the moment the two start feeling that doki doki bullshit.”

“I can’t believe we’re doing this right now.” The brunet continued to grumble, making Iwaizumi chuckle.

“I mean, I was talking about the wedding, but seeing you squirm is also hilarious.”

”Goddamn it-”

“Seriously, Oiks, what’s your secret? Like I always knew you’d be a gold digger – but to end up being _the gold digger_ of all gold diggers is impressive!”

By that point, Oikawa had both hands on his face, the palms pushing against the sockets of his eyes. Every attempt at trying to drown the conversation failed miserably, and the barrier he had established was definitively crushed when Iwaizumi opened his mouth.

“It’s the dumb sympathy card he plays.” The reporter mused. “Gets everyone wrapped around his finger and makes them feel bad for him. I mean look at what he did to (Surname); ‘Sincerity is not in my vernacular, but learning is. And I will try to apply all that makes us different, to make us better’.”

Though the setter groaned in defeat, the sound was washed out by the laughter of the engaged couple sprawled out in the back seat.

“You read it!”

“Mum has a copy, figured I’d see what the hype’s about.”

“Why does your _mum_ have a copy of it?”

“She’s a sad, middle aged Japanese lady and, surprisingly, that’s a very large part of (Name)’s target demographic. Trust me, I’m an editor.”

“Can you not insult my mother while I’m driving?”

“Can you let me out of the car so I don’t have to listen to you all nag me about Writer-chan.”

Mattsun scoffed loudly at Oikawa’s plea. He reached over and pinched the apple of the latter’s cheek, squeezing it until it became raw and red, ignoring the way his friend slapped his hand to try and stop him.

“Now Oiks, call your girlfriend by her name – it’s only polite.”

“We’re not dating.” Oikawa retorted, pulling his face away with a hiss, only to feel Makki’s slender hands pinch at the other side of his face. “You two-”

“For someone who spends so much time asking us to let you into her apartment, it sure doesn’t sound like you’re not dating.” The light-haired editor smirked.

“Who’d have thought Shittykawa gets emotional for something other than volleyball?”

“Iwa-chan, don’t encourage them!”

The familiar, deep chuckle of the middle blocker resonated in Oikawa’s ears. Closely followed by the wing spiker behind him and his own set of laughs, the setter caught the way his friend raised a hand in defeat.

“Keep your pants on, Oiks, we won’t bother you if you really don’t want us to.” Makki relented, flicking the shell of the man’s ear before retracting both hands.

“He means that _he_ won’t. Hiro’s omikuji this year said that if he wanted good luck this year he needed to be nicer to people,” Mattsun chuckled, “and you know how he is with fortunes.”

A uniform chuckle echoed through the cabin, all four men reminiscing the same memory. New Year’s Day right before the start of their second year at Aoba Johsai. They all agreed to visit the shrine by Mattsun’s house to get fortunes and, after much convincing on his part, had opted for traditional written fortunes chosen by the monks there.

Makki had gotten an ending curse, the second worst type of curse one could get, that warned him that his academic plights would fall through unless he applied consistent effort and agency in all of his tasks. And though he had abandoned the fortune there, the wing spiker continued with his due diligence “Just in case”.

(He barely passed, but “barely passed” to his parents was still a fail that almost cost him his second year on the volleyball team.

Makki never returned to that temple for a omikuji fortune.)

“And what were your fortunes?” Mattsun asked, using a hand to pat his fiancé’s knee as if comforting him would help the hurt of the memory.

“Half blessing, the same as every year.”

“Didn’t get one.”

Iwaizumi snorted, casting a knowing glance at the still disgruntled man next to him. “Those half-curses from when we were younger really freaked you out, didn’t they?”

“I mean-”

“Is someone scared that they’ll get an ending curse and fuck up their relationship-not-a-relationship?”

“I just don’t _like_ getting fortunes.” Oikawa reiterated.

Of all the things he had said that morning, that statement had been the truest. They all knew that. Oikawa Tooru had never enjoyed the fate side of New Year celebrations. The distinct memory of giving of the setter’s childhood daruma doll that never had its second eye filled in. None of them had known what he wished for, but the black paint on the wooden figure had been enough to give the remaining group of friends a hint of an idea.

It made the guy a little more predictable, especially with the way he turned out as he continued to mature-

“You really are ‘a life of pure make-believe made real by his own hands and heart’.”

“I will burn every copy of that dumb book.”

Makki smirked, matching the brunet’s dark brown eyes through the rear-view mirror. “Good luck with that, we’ve got another three confirmed runs over the next few months.”

Had it been possible for Oikawa to completely melt into the fabric of the seats, he would have. Instead he took to letting his head loll back into the headrest, eyes shut in defeat while he heaved a heavy breath from his lungs.

 _This was going to be a far longer trip than he anticipated_.

 

* * *

 

An hour out from Tokyo, Iwaizumi deemed it acceptable to stop for a bathroom break. One part selfish, three parts annoyed by Makki’s whining.

But it left Oikawa and Mattsun alone in the parking lot of the rest stop area, stretching their legs as they leant against the small sedan.

Oikawa sprawled out on to the hood of his car, letting the wind brush over the small slivers of skin that were exposed as he flexed the numb muscles. Mattsun leant against the driver’s side door next to the setter, arms folded across his chest as a means of keeping the warmth in.

“But like, are you two _official_ official, or just trying for the sake of trying official?”

The brunet cracked an eye open and glared at the spiker, who stared off in the direction his fiancé and best friend had disappeared into. He was tempted to close his eye and ignore his friend, but knowing the way Matsukawa Issei was a persistence shit, Oikawa felt that answering was the best option – for his _own_ sanity.

Oikawa shrugged a little, attempting to appear as nonchalant as possible. “It’s complicated.”

“Of course it is, it’s you and (Name), of all people.” The former teased with a smirk. “So can you really blame us for wanting to make sure this’ll work out for you both? Makki might kill you if you endanger her current work ethic.”

“Makki-Makki has had enough reason to kill me this past year and hasn’t done it yet.”

“Boy’s becoming a bridezilla, don’t test his patience Oiks.”

When the setter didn’t answer, Mattsun shifted his weight so he stood a little closer.

“We’re giving you shit because we want it to work out for you.” Oikawa turned his head, taking in the pensive expression of the man beside him. “Trust me, we’ll give (Name) the same treatment… But considering the fact that you didn’t have the best footing in the beginning, we figured some precautions have to be put into place.”

“You fuck up one time-”

“It was a big fuck up Oiks,” he reprimanded, “so if you’re serious about this – and you must be, because you’re still talking about her – you gotta know your boundaries-”

“You say that as if neither of us have been trying.” Oikawa interjected. “This is a two way street, we know that, we’re working on it…. Not that I’m saying there is anything for us to work on – it’s just that _hypothetically_ this would be the reality. Because this is definitely not happening with us, not at all.”

The standing man let his lips curve upwards ever so slightly as he watched the improvised excuse exit the other man’s mouth. And as quickly as it appeared, it faded, replaced with the usual stoicness he had become known for. The former stuck a hand into his pants pocket and rummaged around for a moment. He pulled out, still blank faced, and unfurled his fist, revealing a set of keys that glinted in the palms of his hands.

“I’m loaning it to you this one time.” He began, slowly prying open the keyring and threading a matte black key from the set. “I’ll be back to pick it up in a couple days when Makki and I decide to visit the idiot.”

Oikawa instinctively stuck out his hand, and the moment he felt the slightly warmed metal of the key in his palm, his fingers snapped shut around it. With his other arm still on the hood of the car, he propped himself up, watching as Mattsun’s face relaxed even further.

“Like I said, I’m rooting for you losers. And I’ve also got a bet going with Makki that you’ll both give up in like, six years, so make it work until then.”

The setter furrowed his brow. “How long has Makki given us?”

“He’s yet to answer, so don’t give him any reason to think less than six years, got that?”

“Are you being too hopeful?”

“M’always too hopeful when it comes to you two…” Mattsun’s arms folded over his chest once again. “So I mean, I guess that means you prove me wrong – one way or another.”

Their gazes met, and Oikawa felt his nerve waver from the intensity of the challenge being put before him.

Before he could answer, the familiar voice of Makki rang out from across the parking lot – something about eating before they got in to the crowded streets of Tokyo – and the conversation dropped dead between them.

The heavy weight in his hand remained there, a reminder of the parting words Mattsun had given him.

 

* * *

 

It was just after midday when (Name) was content with the current state of her next piece. A little over 24 hours of straight writing and reconstructing had left her dead inside and out, but not in the exact same way she had experienced the year prior.

A sense of accomplishment lingered in the air, so faint it was as if it were a mere memory.

And while in the past, the writer would send the first drafts off to Makki immediately after they were complete, she instead chose to leave it there on the home screen. A small reminder of future endeavours.

It could wait.

For how long, she couldn’t be sure.

But it could wait.

(Name) pushed herself from her desk and stretched her arms above her head, feeling the bones pop slightly and the muscles strain underneath her skin. A yawn escaped her lips and her eyes watered from the exhaustion.

The Hopeless Couple said they wouldn’t drop by until the end of the week, it was perfectly reasonable to hibernate until they would inevitably provide her with a rude awakening. And if they were going to lay in to her in the way she predicted, then a very long sleep was what she needed if she were going to survive further into the year.

She slid the door open and stepped out into the hallway, not bothering to lift up her feet as she walked towards the lounge-

“And here I thought you were sleeping off a new year hangover~ If I knew that I would’ve come in to annoy you!”

Her eyes widened from the sudden sound, and her head snapped to the couch where the voice came from.

Oikawa Tooru, wrapped up in his overcoat, and his suitcase laying idly by in the spare space on the floor. (Name) glanced to it, to him, then to the door, then back to him. Silent. And every time she glanced at him, she was _sure_ his grin got wider.

_Little shit._

“You aren’t real, no way.” The writer deadpanned. “How the fuck do you keep getting inside?”

“Mattsun let me in this time around. ” Oikawa stated, waving a hand dismissively at her frown. “Most of the times it was Makki. If anything, my persistence is a sign that you should give me a key so I can let _myself_ in.”

“Both spare keys are with Mattsun and Makki; if you want one you’ll have to take one by force.” (Name) pressed herself up against the wall, suppressing another yawn from bubbling up out of her throat. “I recommend Makki, he matches your squishiness.”

Oikawa blinked.

“Are you saying I wouldn’t be able to take on Mattsun?”

“If the shoe fits.”

“I could _totally_ take on Mattsun!”

“You totally could.” She agreed. “If he wasn’t built like a boulder and didn’t have a solid five centimetre reach on you. And if he didn’t play dirty. And if you didn’t have a bum knee.”

She gestured wildly with her hand in front of her face, as if she were sprinkling the facts between them. His frown deepened.

“The more you tell me I _can’t_ , the more inclined I am to actually punch him in the face to prove I _can_.”

“Oh man, I’ve always wanted to witness a murder.”

“Oi, you’re meant to be on _my_ team. You supporting Mattsun is treason.”

“And you being here is trespassing.”

“Not when we’re like this.” He held up his hand, his index and middle fingers wrapped around each other.

“More like this.” She flipped him the bird, and Oikawa laughed at the deadpanned look that graced her face. “So you gonna be here long or?”

“It’s be an entire week, (Surname), I haven’t seen you since last year.” The brunet answered, making the (h/c)-haired woman run a hand down her own face before she made off towards the kitchen. “Coffee?” Oikawa chirped, hearing her grunt in response.

He followed her, shrugging off the jacket and letting it cascade clumsily to the floor. As he hooked around the island counter, his sock clad foot slipped slightly.

(Name) barely batted an eyelash.

“How was Christmas?” She yawned, putting a new filter into the machine while Oikawa rummaged around the cabinets for cups and the beans. Both were in the cabinet above the sink – exactly where he kept them in his own apartment.

“Takeru was very excited to hear that you may or may not be dating me.” He replied, placing it to her left while he rummaged around for a second mug. She swiped it into her view, opening a drawer nearby to grab a spoon.

“Isn’t he too young for tabloid brainwashing?”

“He is, his mum not so much.” The brunet retorted, pressing his left hip into the corner of the bench as he watched her practiced and precise movements. A sign of caffeine dependency, for sure. “He also told me to apologise for not coming to visit you again this year. _You_ . Not me, his _actual uncle_ , but the scary lady who decided to babysit him for a few hours.”

“Sounds like that’s your fault, not mine.” He missed the way her face lit up at the slight resentful tone in his voice. “Sugar’s in the top right.”

“Sugar? In your coffee? This late in the day?” Oikawa chastised.

“I mean, I wouldn’t even be drinking anything if you weren’t planning on being here.” Came her reply, and she frowned at him from over her shoulder.

“You don’t _have_ to stay up. I can just entertain myself.”

The writer didn’t reply. A silent admission. The setter couldn’t help but smirk at the meaning behind it.

 _Of course I do._ _It’s you._

The machine whirred to life, and Oikawa finished gathering the rest of the utensils next to her. In the silence, he watched, and waited for a give in her mood. (Name) was harder to read when she was tired – and that in it’s was almost impossible because she was _always_ in some varying state of exhaustion.

By the time the coffee maker’s light had turned off, and the remaining coffee had dripped down into the pot, Oikawa had gotten the gist of her internal monologue. A somewhat grim aura surrounded them, suffocating almost, as (Name) began to prepare the drinks.

“I didn’t mention anything about us to my family.” He murmured, turning to face her. Her head stayed down as she placed the pot back into its tray.

“I wasn’t expecting you to.”

“You weren’t?”

When she looked back at him, there were deep creases between her brows and on her forehead, a sign that he hadn’t necessarily been on the money with his guess.

(Damn her sleep deprivation.)

“Oikawa we are, like, barely a month into whatever this is. How desperate do you think I am?”

A hint of light flashed behind her eyes, electric in the way it ripped the hues of her iris and dissipated into the whites that surrounded it.

She wasn’t desperate – not in the sense of the word she had ghastly expressed – but desperate, in the sense of hopefulness. That maybe, just maybe, by some confusing miracle, they were working at a pace both were comfortable with. That there was an inkling of complete mutual understanding in each other’s dispositions that she didn’t want to fuck up in the process of ‘becoming more serious’.

Oikawa forced himself not to frown – because all that from a simple trick of the light? And she said you shouldn’t trust _Science Majors_.

With the corners of his lips turned up impishly, he pressed the pads of his index and middle fingers in the space between her eyebrows.

“You shouldn’t frown. It makes the top half of your face look all prune-y – and no one wants a prune for a face.”

“I already look like a ghost from my dark circles – what’s the difference?”

“We should get you started on a skincare routine.”

“You gonna pay for it?”

“Why would I pay for your skincare products?”

“I dunno, why do _I_ not kick you out whenever I find you in here?”

“Cause you don’t find me as annoying as other people~”

“Eh, you’re pushing it these days.”

Fingers still on her forehead, he pushed her back, watching as her entire upper body relaxed and let him. The woman barely wobbled, but it didn’t stop Oikawa’s fingers hand from twitching when she complied.

He moved his hand and let it rest on the counter, all while watching the writer slowly lift herself up from her reverse hunch. As she stabilised herself and finished blinking the remaining sleep from her eyes, he spoke.

“Let’s go out.”

“Out?”

“Out.”

She pulled her lips into a thin line.

“Like, _outside_ out?”

“That’s what that word means – geez, (Surname), I thought you were good with words.”

“Nuance and double meanings and colloquialisms are my forte, but I do prefer it when people talk to me straight up.”

“I’m gonna pretend that I understood all of those words in the way you used them.” He dismissed quickly, reaching out for his finished beverage and quickly taking a sip. “But outside out. It’s snowing a little, sure, but we’d only be around for a few hours before both of us got tired of the general public”

“And where is this ‘out’ you speak of?”

“A shrine.”

“Which one?”

“Meiji.”

(Name) couldn’t help the strangled sigh that escaped from her throat.

“That’s all the way in Yoyogi Park, fuck that.”

“It’s a forty minute trip.”

“Almost _an hour_.”

“Think of the memories.”

“Think of my fatigue.”

“You can sleep on the train.”

“You’d leave me there if I did.”

“I hate how know me so well.”

“Makes you wanna rethink this whole thing, doesn’t it?”

Oikawa’s mouth dropped open to reply, but the words failed to form in time in his mind.

Because in all the time they had been trying out whatever their current circumstances were, he hadn’t necessarily rethought anything about it. At least not in the way she was insinuating.

Being together was an afterthought, almost, as if something deep inside him knew that there wasn’t anything to reconsider or evaluate. Sure there was weight in whatever they did – together or otherwise – but that thought hadn’t necessarily bothered him.

It would work out eventually, would all fall into place as time counted down into nothing.

“Is it wrong for me to want to go outside with you?” He answered, finally, letting his monologue fade into white noise. He watched her lips twitch, the subtle lifting of her shoulders in almost apathetic submissions.

“We could do this another day.” She supplied, which only made the man shake his head.

“I’ve got the New Year’s Tournament this weekend, and then we start the second half of the Emperor’s Cup… And like I said… haven’t seen you since last year.”

Oikawa felt the sigh wash over the bottom half of his face. She twisted her features

“You enjoy guilting me in my own home, don’t you.”

“The sympathy card gets you everywhere.”

And then she grumbled something under her breath, pushing against Oikawa’s chest just a little and made off towards her bedroom, wordless. As the door slid shut behind her, he grinned a little wider, but not before he began to rummage through the cabinets to find something akin to a travel mug.

 

* * *

 

“I thought the hatsumode period ended on the 3rd of the month.” (Name) grumbled, the words muffled by the scarf wrapped around the lower half of her face. Oikawa shrugged, tugging the collar of his jacket up a little higher.

“It should... Guess a lot of people still haven’t visited a shrine.”

The entrance of the Meiji Shrine in Yoyogi Park was still brimming with people and tourists alike, posing for photos in front of the snow covered tori gate while small flecks of white began to fall from the sky. Mid-winter in Tokyo was where the temperatures dropped a little more, and most of the time it deterred people from doing anything outside for longer than necessary.

Oikawa hadn’t anticipated that the need to uphold tradition would override the general public’s natural instinct to be lazy during the one time life provided a time to do so.

The first shrine visit of the year was something everyone observed, and bookended the average year in Japan while simultaneously setting up the next 365 days. Because of that, there was a lingering sense of reverence that the country couldn’t shake off.

By the time they had arrived in the heart of the city, it was cutting closer to the late afternoon, and from the general chatter and merriment form the crowd still surrounding the shrine, it was clear that they would not be dispersing any time soon.

The writer tugged her beanie further down her forehead and straightened out the placement of her scarf, eyeing the groups of families and friends who filled in at out from their destination, all in varying states of excitement and glee.

The brunet choked out a laugh, making her glance at him from the corner of her eye.

“What?”

“Don’t want people to see us, huh?”

“It’s preferred.”

“Should I be offended?”

“Always.”

Passing under the tori gate, the pair continued into courtyard, overshadowed by the silhouette of the wooden two-storey temple framed by the matching walls and borders that extended near entrance. The courtyard was similarly crowded, with lines of people snaking this way and that, in and out of specific areas and stands were wishes were being written on wooden blocks and statues were being prayed in front of.

For a brief second, Oikawa felt the woman next him tense up at their scenery. Discomfort, as opposed to disgruntlement. He stepped closer to her, their covered shoulders brushing against each other as they continued to idly walk around the sea of people.

“What now then, oh great trip planner?”

He panned his head side to side, letting his gaze flutter to the corner of the courtyard. Set up there was a medium sized stall, tucked underneath the awning of the main temples roof, with several boxes and containers positioned and monitored by the lingering monks of the shrine. To the right were frames holding horizontal metal rods, all covered in knotted strips of paper. He jutted his chin out in that direction, the writer following in suit.

“Omikuji? The wait’s pretty short, and it’s cheaper than buying an ema block.”

Her brow quirked upwards as the words settled in her mind.

“I didn’t take you for the type to listen to pieces of paper for life advice.”

“I’m not.” He confirmed as he began to pat his pockets in order to find his wallet. “But it’s tradition and I forgot to do it back home in Sendai so I thought I’d make up for it here.”

“Again, you don’t look like a guy who follows tradition.”

He didn’t answer because, like always, she had a point.

But he hadn’t the nerve to tell her that his suggestion in going to Meiji was to prove to his asshole friends that he wasn’t scared of what the written fortune would dictate for the year, that he was not worried the slip would say he was wasting his time with her and that nothing in his life would go right.

Because he wasn’t.

Definitely.

They moved wordlessly over to the stall, both continuing to fumble for their wallets and retrieve some form of donation to give. The two fell into step in the line, slowly inching forwards towards the front, still silent, as if speaking would give away who they were and ruin what they had.

Comfort.

Secrecy.

When they neared the front, both dropped their donations into the small coin box. Oikawa’s had retracted from the slot, punctuated by the muted clinking of metal against metal. (Name) barely moved, letting her fingers dance over the opening. A flash of yellow-green slipped just out of reach and into the confines of the box. Silent. The setter blinked twice before his eyes widened suddenly-

“Did you drop a fucking _note_ in there?”

(Name) looked back to him, blank faced.

“I don’t visit shrines often.” Came her reply, a soft almost guilty tone. As if her tithe were a form of repentance for not bothering with a tradition she didn’t need to keep.

The man fell dumb and nodded anyway, because that was a can of worms he would open at some other point in their arrangement. Not on new year’s. Not when the mood was finally close to something that could vaguely be considered ‘good’.

When they reached the front of the line they split up, the (h/c)-haired woman veering off to one of the free omikuji boxes to the right while the brunet went left.

He barely stopped in front of the box before he shoved his hand in and retrieved a single slip and moved over towards the frame of strung up fortunes.

With a quick glance over both his shoulders, he angled his head downwards and began to unfold the fortune. His eyes flitted to the top right hand corner of the sheet before he quickly folded it back up again, hands moving at the speed of light in order to hide the evidence. And then he was speed-walking closer to the posts, and letting his hands work the paper into a knot in one of the free spaces left from the overlapping fortunes that had been abandoned by their owners.

As he stepped away and rubbed his bare hands together, he caught the writer tightening the knot of her own fortune not too far away from him. His body moved on its own accord, just barely reaching her as she stopped fiddling with the paper.

“What’d yours say?” He inquired, stowing his hands away to protect them from the cold.

“Nothing special.” She answered half-heartedly, moving away from the posts with him in tow.

“Was it a great curse?”

“I’ve never gotten a bad fortune in my life.”

“Why’d you tie it to the post, then?”

(Name) shoved her hands into her pockets, letting her chin sink further into the nest of her scarf.

“You tie the paper to post if you don’t want the fortune, right?” She posed. “So maybe I don’t want it.”

“That’s not a thing you do.”

“Yes it is.”

“If it’s good you keep it, that’s like the whole point of getting good fortunes.”

Her eyes closed for a moment, and if the scarf had not covered the lower half of her face Oikawa would have seen the amusement that danced across sit at his indignant tone. The hues of jealousy and disbelief that crossed his face in a flash were too exaggerated for something as simple as a written fortune.

“Friendly tip,” the writer gestured to the signage near the omikuji cartons, “maybe you start reading between the lines. It’ll make life easier for you.”

Oikawa followed her gaze, slowing his steps to stop his eyes straining from reading at an increased distance. He felt the blood drain from his face as his mind echoed each bolded syllable printed on the laminated page.

_Reach hand into container and pull out a paper. Donations kindly accepted._

_Good fortunes can be kept with you._

_Bad fortunes should be tied to the post so it does not follow._

_When you receive good fortune, you should not be careless and arrogant._

_Even in bad fortune, have no fear. Try to be modest and gentle._

_Whether in good or bad fortune, you should tenaciously do your best._

_You carve out your own destiny_.

Simple, clipped instructions so that even the densest of foreign tourists could follow them. And yet, the subtext was there, and though he ignored it in the past, at that moment he could not.

Before he could retort to her comment, (Name) took lead.

“Wanna walk around for a bit?”

“I thought you were sleepy?”

“I’m running on caffeine and sheer adrenaline now, if there is any chance of me sleeping by the time we get home then I need to get it out of my system ASAP.”

Tongue caught between her teeth, (Name) scanned the area, brows slowly returning to their furrowed state, as if a natural response to what she saw. A quick glance towards the small walking paths that framed the entirety of Yoyogi park showed that, even as the temple readied to close, there were still far too many people for either of their likings.

Oikawa hummed in thought. “We can eat a really big dinner? By the time we get back the fatigue from overeating would’ve kicked in.”

“You’re paying right?”

“ _You’re_ paying right?”

“Oh look, another donation box. My money is mysteriously going to fall inside of it-”

He wrapped a hand around her bicep, anchoring her in place next to him. “I’ll pay, I’ll pay.”

A puff of muffled air passed her lips – the only sign she had laughed at the way he had backpedalled.

“Where’d you wanna eat? Somewhere closer to home?”

“Somewhere warm, away from people, and with good food.”

“That’s a lot of places.”

“You’re paying, you pick.”

“What if I pick a really dodgy place in Piss Alley.”

“I don’t give a shit since I’m not paying.”

In the encroaching darkness, no one was the wiser to the setter’s minute movements. Slow and measured, as if he were serving a volleyball in a championship match. His hand slid down from her bicep, brushing against the fabric of her coat before his fingers fumbled almost clumsily with her own. Their palms slotted into place and then his fingers squeezed against the back of her hand, the same as he had done countless times before over the course of whatever they were.

She didn’t pull away. Instead, he felt her squeeze back – the same as she had done each and every time he initiated.

“Then that ramen place you took me that one time?”

“Fuck, actually, ramen _would_ be good tonight. Unlimited drinks, yeah? That’ll help me get to sleep a lot faster.”

“S’long as I don’t have to carrying you home then yeah, why not.”

As they continued out towards the foregrounds of the Meiji courtyard, Oikawa couldn’t help but cast a final glance back towards the omikuji stand. The crowd had yet to thin; the line they once stood in had slowly begun to weaving into the walkways, all the travellers standing in varying states of expectancy for the words of wisdom that awaited them.

(Name) tugged at his hand, and the action forced him to turn and face her once more.

She didn’t meet his gaze. Instead she continued to look forward, chin parallel to the ground as she continued to walk.

Oikawa pulled back in response, and then lifted his head back up, matching her stature and pose before they both passed through the wooden tori gate that marked the shrine’s scared land.

Neither of them dared look back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> what's this? a next chapter button? and a total of 32 chapters instead of 30?? I wonder what could be waiting for you on the other side...


	31. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Life goes on, things don't change.
> 
> Maybe.

_August, 2020 _

The last time his body felt like boulder was the at the recruitment camp for Ryuujin Nippon in his freshman year of university. The trials had been over the course of a week in the Metropolitan Gymnasium, and he clearly recalled the bundle of nerves his body had become, as though the weight of the world rested on his shoulders alone.

And yet now, almost 4 years on from his trials, history had begun to repeat itself in more ways than one.

The last time Japan had competed in Olympic-level volleyball was 2008; they had finished last. The last top five placement was 1976. Their last medal win was 1972; their first and last gold medal in the sport.

It had not been easy sailing from the once proud team.

And now there they stood; Ryuujin Nippon in all their former glory, competing in the finals for the Olympics against the reigning powerhouse, Brazil. The team had undergone minor changes across the year and a half leading up to the Olympics, but one thing remained the same.

The desire to reclaim volleyball in the place the Olympic level was born.

Oikawa’s head pounded from the lack of oxygen being taken into his body, and his eyes narrowed at the sight of the scoreboard hanging aloft from the ceiling.

**Brazil          Japan**

_32                                                       30_   
_26                                                        28_   
_33                                                        31_   
_35                                                       37_

34                 34

Two sets each.

And this last set was meant to _end 38 points ago_.

Brazil had used the last of their time-outs after falling into a deuce against their competitors, leaving Japan enough time to regroup once again and figure out their next few plans of attack. They still had a time-out left, but the look on Coach Nagakaichi’s face showed he was not planning on using it any time soon.

“Oikawa, how’s your knee?” The coach’s voice rung out above the background noise of Ariake Arena, snapping the starting setter from his stupor.

For the last twelve points, Kageyama had been subbed into after Oikawa’s knee gave out in a set to Ushijima. A safety precaution, Nagakaichi had explained, and Oikawa hadn’t argued with the logic. If he wanted to fight any further in the match then he needed to let the flaring pain from his ligaments calm down. And he was grateful for the chance, especially when he looked across the athletes from both sides and saw the crippling fatigue that had finally begun to settle into their systems. For the first time in his life, Oikawa Tooru had never been prouder of having Tobio-chan on his side.

All of his teammates looked to the benched setter with eyes filled with determination and worry.

“I’ll live.” He answered proudly, sitting up a little straighter as he locked eyes with their coach. “I’ve got more energy in me again, so if we’re gonna go for the kill then we have to do it now.”

The look of uncertainty flashed across their coach’s face made his stomach clench involuntarily.

“I agree with Oikawa-san.” The rookie setter chimed, his browbone glazed with a thick sheen of sweat. The glint in his eye hardened, a familiar look that was only seen when Tobio-chan and Shrimpy-chan were at the top of their game. “They might think it’s a last ditch attempt, especially with how bad that fall was, but that means there’s an unpredictability in what Oikawa-san will do next. We’ve done all we can with our minus-tempo quick, so why not throw in another variable?”

A murmur of agreement rippled through the team, only to be broken by the dissonant snort of the rookie orange-headed spiker.

“Since when did your vocabulary get so formal, Shitty-yama-”

“I will throw you across the court, you dumbass tangerine-!”

The two juniors flopped over themselves as Nishinoya’s elbows found their way into the guts. The murmurs had turned into a mix of amused snorts and brief chuckles, easing the tension that had unknowingly settled over the team.

Most times, the humour and mirth that emerged from the antics of the two Karasuno alum were out of place – but today it felt needed. Their silent and almost unwavering confidence had trickled steadily into the headspaces of their teammates, and had continued to fill their thoughts in the months leading up to the Olympics.

(Oikawa made a mental note to treat his coach when he had the chance; who’d have thought the choice to bump Shrimpy-chan into first strand from the second was the best decision he’d make in all four years of coaching their generation.)

“And it’s our serve, specifically Kageyama’s.” Kuroo mused, swiping his forearm across his forehead, matting down the untamed fringe against the sheen. “If we get Oiks’ out there now and throw them off their stride then we might be able to pull ahead. And we need too, there’s no way we can let this set get into the 40s.”

Though no one chimed in, their silence was enough. Japan needed stay on the offensive for the next two rallies or they would fall apart.

A silver medal placement after almost tasting gold would be a disgrace to the nation, and more importantly their own prides.

“We can end this here.” Oikawa stood up, feeling the pain in his right knee flare ever so slightly before the adrenaline began to seep into his veins once more. “If the opportunity is within our reach we should grab it; just like every other time we’ve seen it.”

Nagakaichi straightened himself out, a shadow appeared across his face while the white strands of hair that dotted his head glittered under the stadium lights. When he lifted his head, Oikawa felt himself freeze at the determination that flooded the elder man’s face.

“We’re counting on you, Oikawa.”

The brunet nodded, not before swallowing the lump that had formed in his throat.

The buzzer sounded to signal the end of the timeout, and his teammates dispersed around him, half of them trailing back to the marked square while the others flittered back on to the court.

Oikawa took one final swig of water from his bottle before making his way to the table that marked the centre. A few quick words later and the referees were waving in the substitution. The black-haired setter stood in front of him and took the paddle with his number from his upperclassman. The look in his eye flickered with something akin to belief and respect and all the other emotions that still felt foreign when they came from Tobio-chan.

It felt as though time slowed down as he walked towards the back right hand corner of their side of the court, catching the ball Ushijima had tossed to him as he passed.

The cheers and expectant cries of approval from the audience around him faded out, and for a moment Oikawa _swore_ he heard the one voice he really didn’t want to hear in that moment.

_How badly could you fuck up? Like, really?_

The phone call the night before had been a short one – a mix of questions concerning his well-being as the Games steadily drew to a close and whether or not the writer believed they would win. She hadn’t been hopeful, and she hadn’t been pessimistic about it either.

‘Implicit faith’ was the term she used, from what Oikawa remembered. And while most normal people would fine that insensitive, he didn’t realise how much he needed that sarcastic support in his entire life.

Because it meant so much more than her original meanings – most of (Name)’s words tended to do that, he learnt.

‘Everyone else believes in you,’ it said, ‘and if everyone else believes then that gives me more than enough reason to do the same.’

The looks on his teammates faces had proved her right. Most things in life proved _her_ right. Which should be illegal, really.

But he could dwell on that after the match.

Releasing an exasperated sigh from deep within his chest, Oikawa’s eyes fluttered open once more, taking in the current state of the rotation before him. Bokuto, Kuroo, and Ushijima stood in the vanguard while Sakusa, Hinata, and himself manned the backline.

It was a good rotation, a good formation.

He just couldn’t fuck this up.

He _wouldn’t_ fuck it up.

A whistle blew and the referee gestured forward, signalling Oikawa to serve. Without hesitation, Oikawa tossed the ball up and took his run up. His palm swung down to meet the leather, and all he could think in that moment was _back corner._

The brief second of air whistling around the ball was broken by the course of the serve, soaring in between the line that divided the front and back. A twisted smile appeared on the setter’s face, the lingering sting on his hand telling him that had been a _very_ good serve

The Brazilian captain moved to try and connect, only to have the ball miss his left forearm by mere millimetres and proceed to paint the inside line. The whistle blew. The flag was down.

In.

34                 35

The home crowd erupted and deafened him for a second, and Oikawa swore his knee almost gave out _again_.

A hand grabbed his shoulder and stabilised him. Tarou-chan. Who looked at him with a stoic expression that barely eluded the sense of satisfaction from a clean service ace. And then he was gone, going back to his position in order for the next play to take place.

In the corner of his eye, Oikawa took note in the way Coach Nagakaichi unfolded his arms from his chest and stood up, keeping an eye on the next point.

The next serve.

The one that actually _mattered_.

With the ball back in his hands and the Brazilian team rotated one over, Oikawa bit down harshly on the inside of his cheek.

He couldn’t lose focus. Two options were laid out before him. Either he dish out another service ace, and if he couldn’t do that then he needed to set themselves up for an opportunity to strike.

_What was easier?_

The whistle blew again and Oikawa threw the ball up again to serve, the arc of his swing a little stronger than the last. Not as tight of a course as his first serve, but it would be enough. It had to be enough.

The Brazilian libero pivoted back one foot and let his forearms receive the ball. The smack of synthetic leather against skin reverberated. He stumbled, and as he looked up to where the ball began to fly Oikawa barely caught on to the way gritted his teeth because-

“Chance ball!” Hinata yelled as the ball rocketed towards him, arms ready to bunt it over to Oikawa, who ran into position to set.

His eyes scanned the layout once again before he locked eyes with Ushijima. The toss went up faster than Brazil could regroup and soared to the righthand side where it was promptly smacked down over the net by the left-handed spiker.

Hitting the block, the ball spun upwards and gave their opponents enough time to regroup and perform their own attack.

And then it began again, a never ending rally that forced both sides to switch between offense and defence that made his head spin. The atmosphere became filled with a cacophony of calls and signals in a mix of languages, punctuated by heaved breaths and squeaking shoes on the polished floorboards.

Oikawa’s gaze never faltered, never wavered from the goal that was hanging aloft in front of him.

“Keep connecting!” The words scratched against his parched throat, voice cracking as his body strained against the fatigue. “If the ball’s in the air, then we still have a chance!”

The ball left his hands and went up to Hinata, who swung his arm diagonally downwards in an attempt to get in a cross. The angle was tight – reminiscent of the ones Bokuto had been dishing out in the earlier sets of the match – but it was still picked up by their wing spiker in the back line.

His knee throbbed against the brace.

 _Tarou-chan_.

In the brief glimpse midgame, Oikawa didn’t see any signs of distress or fatigue on the spiker’s face. In fact, it looked as if he were the _only_ one who wasn’t teetering on the edge of crippling exhaustion.

Teeth still clamping down on the flesh of his cheek, he planned, pivoting on his foot to set himself up from the following attack.

There wasn’t time for mistakes. And this would be a gamble on the brunet’s part.

Ushijima side stepped into the feint of the opposing spiker before moving back out of the way to let the offense start up. Oikawa swore he heard the bed headed blocker over the sounds of his own blood thundering in his ear drums. As if they read his mind, his teammates simultaneously secured their own run-ups.

A synchro-attack.

Because with their offensive line up was too dispersed across the entirety of Japanese courtside.

There was half a beat of pause before all five remaining attackers ran forward. Oikawa held his breathe as his fingers made contact with the ball before he tossed, watching it fly away from him towards the two spikers on the left.

There was a glint in the brown eyes of the orange-headed rookie and he faltered a step, giving his senior enough time to register it was coming his way.

Recognition, Oikawa determined, of more than just the set.

Bokuto jumped as the ball reached it’s half way point and timed the swing so perfectly. Oikawa clicked his tongue, watching as the ball connected with the reddened palm of the shorter man and soared, just barely in the gap between the blocker and the sideline.

The libero dove as quickly as he could, one hand on the floor to help him slide faster because _a straight??? When he had been doing crosses all night???_

The sharp thud of the ball rung out. The Brazilians didn’t move. And all it took was a moment for Oikawa’s soul to leave his body. The energy he had garnered from his time being benched had died, had left his body like warmth in the winter.

The ball bounced against the floor once, twice, three times before it rolled towards the section of sports journalists and camera operators. As his gaze trailed behind the ball, Oikawa’s eyes met the olive of his childhood friend, who’s own were wide at the sudden velocity of the ball as it barely passed him where he sat.

Time slowed again. He turned his head to the right and angled it up, looking towards the neon lit scoreboard. And all fell silent as Oikawa Tooru watched the 5 tick over into the shape of a 6.

A buzzer sounded. And then there was nothing, nothing but the throbbing in his knee and the tsunami of noise that hit him from all angles, almost knocking him to the floor from the force of the noise.

But that’s all he heard for a moment, because again that nagging voice he had blocked out _so well_ for 99% of the finals had crept back in.

A sarcastic ‘I told you so’.

Someone jumped on him – Nishinoya, most likely – while the thunder of noise and cheers echoed through the stadium. It was then that his knee buckled, and someone else’s hand grabbed at his free shoulder and held him upright. And then another pair, and another.

And suddenly he was surrounded by the red and black of Ryuujin Nippon, pulling each other upright and into a huddled scream of agony and prostration and repudiation. Tears pooled into the corners of his eyes and trickled down the length of his cheeks, mixing with the sweat that dripped down from his brow and settled on the back of his neck. He swore someone else started to tear up in that same moment, grips on each other simultaneously tightening against the holds they all had on each other’s jerseys.

That didn’t happen.

No way.

No _fucking_ way.

Oikawa snapped his head up and let his gaze sweep the crowd, taking in the polarised reaction of the crowd. Half of the stadium looked forlornly at the Brazilian team, clad in green and yellow as they mourned the loss of the point, of their match, of the possibility of another gold medal for their nation.

The other half were in various states of uproar, of celebration and elation that the seemingly impossible had happened.

It was in that moment that gaze found his family, amidst the other spectators clad in the colours of Japan, yelling and embracing under the lights displaying Japan’s victory. His mother and father held each other in a tight embrace, shaking with what Oikawa hoped was pride. Mihiko looked down at him from the stands proudly, a gleaming smile that contrasted her own glossy eyes. By her side was Takeru, who buried his head into his mother’s side and shook from his own mix of adrenaline. Removing his hand from where it lay across his teammate’s back, he waved, a quick one of acknowledgement to his family before he kept turning and turning to the rest of the crowd, a silent and simple thank you for unwavering confidence and support.

As the team slowly began to disperse from their huddle and wave their own sets of thanks, Oikawa felt himself falter, and reach out for the nearest person in support.

Ushijima snapped his head down and kept a hand on his back quickly, unsure if the setter’s knee had been injured in the last lengthy rally.

The concern fell away. Oikawa pushed himself upright once more as his eyes widened at the figure their gaze had landed on.

It wasn’t hard to miss his fellow Seijoh alum, the juniors and seniors that had helped hone his skills and let him become who he was.

But he almost missed her. Almost.

Amidst the crowd of giants, a sea of black and white and red, she was there. The environment moved around them, and yet she remained still, as if paralysed by his gaze. The world was in uproar but she was not. Hair pushed up off her face, donning her own red and black attire. There on her face was a lopsided smile, vaguely condescending and it matched the sentence he heard in his thoughts just moments ago.

Behind the confidence, though, was fatigue. He caught a brief glimpse of her own weariness from the full five sets they had competed in. As if she herself had felt the ache in his bones and the straining of his muscles.

And while his chest swelled with elation, it died almost as quickly and filled with the familiar sense of annoyance he could only have with the infamous (Surname) (Name).

Because she said she wasn’t going to be there.

“We’re still keeping this on the down-low, aren’t we?” had been her choice of words during last night’s phone call. “I can just watch it on TV, it’s the exact same.”

His expression hardened.

 _That lying shit_.

And then he was running, running towards her with his game face still on, pushing past his teammates and the national team staff as they tried to keep him grounded. He ignored them, didn’t give a shit for them in their moment of shared victory because _this woman_ was going to kill him one day.

Oikawa ran around the net and avoided the huddle of his opponents, making a b-line for the writer. She moved from her seat towards the barrier, breaking away from the embrace Makki-Makki had tried to pull her in.

As he approached the wall, Oikawa jumped and pushed his entire body forward. His foot collided with the wall first, giving him enough leverage to reach his hands out toward the top of the barrier and hike his other foot on top of the lip of the wall. And then he pulled, heaved his body up with whatever strength he had within him before he was face to face with the writer.

He leant over the edge, his right hand grabbing the front of (Name)’s shirt while his left arm wound its way around her waist. When her chest was flushed against his, he let his dominant hand cradle the back of her head next to his, slowing down his breaths so that they matched in time with her own. The writer’s hands followed suit, resting across his shoulders and enabling her to card her fingers through the dampened brown locks. He felt her breathe – shaky and nervous – against the shell of his ear.

“I still don’t understand volleyball.”

He laughed, breathless. His grip tightened around her. “I’ll never understand _you_.”

She squeezed him a little tighter in response. “How’s your knee, ass-wipe?”

“Can’t even feel it.”

“You can still walk?”

“Wouldn’t have jumped up to you if I couldn’t.”

“You would’ve done it to prove me wrong.” (Name) smirked against him.

And something snapped.

Oikawa the hand on her neck moved towards her chin, quick and fluid, and his digits kept her jaw centred with his own. And then he leant in, pressing his chapped lips on to her own. Oikawa smirked. The thought of (Name) being as exhausted and worn as he was amused him, filled him with something akin to pride, to glory that not even the gold medal could replicate.

When they pulled apart, he was sure that the crowd had gotten even louder.

(Name)’s eyes fluttered opened, and before she could admonish him, Oikawa pushed the tips of their noses together.

“I work better under spite.”

“You can shove that spite all the way up your ass.”

“Oh, kinky~”

He pressed their lips together again for a brief second, only to have the sensation of her lips be replaced with the wind. Two bodies were pressed against them, and two voices that were louder than the rest of the stadium from the sudden proximity of-

“WHY DIDN’T YOU WAIT TO THE WEDDING TO DO THAT, YOU FUCK!?” Mattsun yelled, separating Oikawa from (Name) in order to lock his neck in the curve of his elbow and scrape his fist against his skull. “I LOST OUR BET BECAUSE OF YOU!”

“YOU TWO ARE UN-FUCKING-BELIEVABLE!” Came Makki’s own cheers as his hands pulled himself and his writer into towards the other two men struggling against each other.

Trapped between the two crushing bodies of the editor and his fiancé, Oikawa barely registered the feeling of (Name)’s lips brushing the underside of his chin in a chaste and hidden kiss.

 

* * *

 

Late into the night, after receiving his gold medal and performing a final lap of the new National Stadium during the Closing Ceremony, Oikawa and the rest of the representatives dispersed from the stadium towards the awaiting crowds of families and friends that had come to escort them home for the first night after the end of their four year journeys.

Oikawa didn’t need to look far for (Name), catching her familiar silhouette tucked around the side of the exit, arms folded across her chest and torso wrapped in a thin cardigan. When she saw him, she pushed herself upright, and met his strides halfway. The athlete dropped his back and pulled her in again, another kiss pressed against her forehead.

She was unperturbed when she pulled away.

“Where are my idiot fan-club?”

“Hopeless Couple and Iwaizumi offered to escort your family back to their hotel. Your mum also told me to tell you to try and see them off tomorrow; their train back to Miyagi is at five in the afternoon.”

“They didn’t give you a hard time?”

“Makki and Mattsun? Nothing out of the ordinary.”

“ _My parents_.”

Oikawa let his hands rest on her shoulders, ruffling the cardigan’s fabric with his thumbs as they rubbed up and down. She shrugged against his hands

“I’m invited for Christmas this year. But I’m sure you’re getting a earful from everyone when you do see them.”

“Guess that means I don’t see them until December.” He shrugged.

“You see them off at the station, Limpo.”

“Oh, I got a nickname upgrade?”

“Demotion, technically. You fell like a fucking brick on to your bum knee, I’m disappointed.”

The whine burbled in his throat. “I’m _fine_.”

“So if I kick you-”

“I’d fall for you anyway, you don’t need to force it.”

“Leave the poetic stuff to me, dear, I do get paid for it.”

“Hey, are you going to introduce us!”

Eyes wide from the intrusion, Oikawa spun around to face the lingering remnants of Ryuujin Nippon, a few second string guys, and the four banes of his existence. Nishinoya led the charge -as he tended to do with intruding on his life – flanked by the Freak Duo and Ushijima.

The setter and the writer looked at each other, and then back at the lingering members of Ryuujin Nippon.

“It’s getting really late-”

“My knee’s cramping up all over again-”

“Maybe another time-”

“In like another four years at the next Olympics-”

“I’m sorry you have had to put up with Oikawa alone. He does tend to border on insufferable from time to time-”

“ _You’re_ calling _me_ insufferable, Ushiwaka-chan-?”

“He really is! But I’ll be sure get in touch when he gets too much for me to handle. We should be going, sorry, it’s a pretty long trip for us home.” The writer butted in, reaching down to swing the strap of the setter’s bag over her shoulder. “I’ll try not to be a stranger in the next few years gentlemen. Have a good night!”

Wrapping an arm around one of his, (Name) tugged him and around and stalked further out into the parking lot, approaching the line of taxis that had been called for the team. Oikawa glared one more time at the teammates who laughed at his predicament and the writer’s comment before focusing his attention back on to her.

“A long trip home for us, huh?” He asked impishly, watching as she rolled her eyes. “I was sure you’d take me back to Mejirodai.”

“I am,” she affirmed, deadpan, “but any journey with you is an obnoxiously long one.”

 

* * *

 

It was early in the morning when the knocking begun, a little after the summer sun had finally crested over the horizon and bathed the prefecture in a warm, yellow-orange hue.

Granted, (Name) still refused to wake up any earlier than midday, so the disturbance amplified her fatigue.

That is, until she pulled the front door open and met the familiar golden eyes of a long-lost face. He hadn’t appeared at her doorstep in a little over two years. There hadn’t been much of a reason to, but whatever fatigue that plagued her body slowly faded into nothing because-

“It’s nice to see you, Bo.”

The salt-and-peppered haired man ran a hand through his locks, gaze shaking as theirs met.

“Sorry for the intrusion… I, uh, I know how much you like sleep but I have a couple interviews in the afternoon and I wouldn’t have been able to see you otherwise.”

She stifled a yawn and waved a hand dismissively. “I get it completely, don’t worry. Did you wanna come inside?”

“Just the genkan is fine… I don’t wanna stay too long.”

He scratched the back of his neck, watching as the writer stepped aside to let him enter. The door clicked shut as he passed, and when he turned (Name) was pressed up against the door. Bokuto cast another quick glance over his shoulder into the rest of the apartment.

“Where’s Tooru?” The spiker inquired as he trailed further into the apartment.

“Makki and Mattsun’s ceremony is this week, and since he’s one of their Best Men he’s making up for lost time.”

“If I’m honest, I wasn’t even sure you still lived here.” He admitted sheepishly. “Kuroo told me Oikawa moved to Yokohama, and since you two are together I just thought you would’ve, like, moved in with him.”

It was her turn to shrug, head cocked to the side. “We do, but I bought this apartment from my old landlord right before he passed away. I wanted to keep it since it’s closer to Kodansha.” (Name) looked back at her guest. “There are too many memories here to just give it up.”

He looked back down the hallway, the corner of the couch barely peeking into view.. “Yeah… I know.”

In the silence, (Name) took lead with an ease he recalled in the deep recesses of his mind

“Congratulations on the gold medal… That last spike in the fourth set looked insane; I thought your shoulder had popped out of place.”

Bokuto shrugged and rubbed the back of his neck again, pinching at the skin there to calm down. “Lot’s of practice and luck I guess… It takes a lot more than three blockers to stop me.”

She laughed.

He didn’t realise he missed the sound of it.

Bokuto coughed, and scratched the skin underneath his nose as he tried to plan the next sentence in his mind.

“I, uh, I missed your last birthday, didn’t I?”

Though it was phrased as a question, (Name) knew that Bo was certain of it. But he wasn’t the only one. Oikawa did as well. They were both busy training, and the writer had never expected much of anyone during such an integral competition season.

It couldn’t always be about her.

“Don’t sweat it,” she hummed, “everyone’s been busy, and it’s easy to miss.”

“We shouldn’t though,” he interjected, “you didn’t miss mine last year.”

Bokuto couldn’t stop the smile from appearing on his face. Last year had been a blur, bar the moment her gift arrived on his doorstep. 10am on the dot, the same delivery guy from the previous year, with an all too familiar gift that made his lungs constrict at the sight of them.

A box of bright red carnations, just beginning to bloom.

No name on the note; but Bokuto had always known.

‘For a flashy dude’ it read, as if they were still sharing a joke.

It was the closest thing to an “I love you” he got, and if he were the same Bokuto Koutarou from the year before he wouldn’t have accepted that. But he was different.

 _They_ were different.

(Name) didn’t act perturbed at the fact her secret had been found out. She was at ease, as if she expected him to know and call her out on it. “I figured you needed a pick-me-up before the preparation got too heavy. No sweat.”

His heart lurched at the statement. But he willed himself to keep going, to ignore the fluttering that steadily bloomed in his chest.

“I just… You just got that bookseller award again – I mean, you a-always get awards but-” He coughed and turned away, pulling out a wrapped parcel from the messenger bag that hung at his side. “Y’know when a book gets an award, the writer gets like a watch or some prize money or this really fancy pen blessed by the gods?”

The words struck a chord in her memories, an eerie sense of déjà vu clouding her mind.

“Bo, no.”

“It’s nothing much I swear, I just…”

His grip tightened around the wrapped parcel as he turned back around and pushed it into her hands.

“It’s in better hands with you.”

With nimble fingers and precise movements, the writer began to free the rectangular object from his brown papered coverings.

In less than a minute the wrapping paper lay discarded on the floor between them as she held the gift in both her hands. The black cover and white lettering forced (Name) to look in disbelief.

“My anthology?”

“I found it outside my door a couple years ago.” He explained, slowly folding his arms. “And I kept it cause I thought _you_ had sent it to me since, _y’know_ , you had promised me and Akaashi at dinner that one time that you’d send us early editions of stuff. But then Kuroo mentioned that Akaashi was complaining about how hard it was to get hold of one of the reprints – let alone an _original_ edition – and I just thought…”

He pushed the end closer to her before retracting his hand quickly.

“This was never mine.”

As the words left his lip, she frowned. It caught him off guard – not the action but the emotion behind it. His memories of her consisted of a guarded woman, who opened up to the smaller parts of herself to a man who always wanted too much as means of satiating him. But now, those cracks in the façade she were less purposeful, as though she let the world take its toll and do as it pleased.

It was familiar – the same type of frown he begun to see on one of his closest friends.

“I can’t take this Bo,” the writer protested, brows furrowed as the words finally formed in her mind, “it’s yours.”

He shook his head.

“No it’s not, it’s never was mine. I don’t need it anymore, I’ve got everything I need.”

 _You’ve given me enough, let me give something back_.

(Name) gave him a long hard look, an analytical undertone to her stare that would normally off-put even the most stoic of individuals. There was silence for a few minutes, and she watched as his shoulders stopped rising with his breathing for a microsecond – nervous. But despite the minor distraction she still caught wind of it, the subtle glimmer of hope in his golden hues that was once directed at her. Now, it flittered with a different undertone, held a different meaning.

“Who’s the lucky sap?”

It was then, and only then, that a two-toned male flinched. She knew.

Of course she figured it out.

That was the _whole point_ of him coming here, but it still _hurt_.

_Why did it still hurt?_

“Akaashi comes back from his gig in Akita tomorrow.” He breathed out after swallowing the lump in his throat. She smiled, the cogs clicking into place as they slowly made sense.

“You gonna go for it?”

He scratched the back of his head again. “I mean… I asked him to lunch. Whether or not I chicken out is a different story in itself.”

(Name) nodded along to his words, confirming the uncertainty of his disposition with the look in his eyes, cross referencing it to the awkwardness of his stance. A make it or break it lunch, it seemed.

It was always all or nothing with Bokuto – a charming feature when one wasn’t knee deep in it.

“He’d be an idiot to say no to you, y’know?” She stated, a soft smile adorning her face. Bokuto frowned at the implication of her words – (Name) wasn’t an idiot, _he_ had been for not following through.

But before he could retort she continued.

“I’m happy for you,” she relaxed her arms, letting them rest against her front. “You deserve it…”

He looked down at her hands, eyeing the way they tightened around the sides of the anthology.

And then there was a surge of confidence that swelled within him, that stirred his heart to start beating wildly in his chest.

“Be honest with me.” Bokuto inched a little closer. “Did I ever have a chance?”

(Name) recoiled slightly at the sudden question, but recovered just as quickly. The smile sunk a little more, turning more sad that it originally appeared to be.

“I think we were victims of the wrong place and wrong time,” she lifted her shoulders in a defeated shrug, “we wanted different things, needed different things. I couldn’t have given you everything you deserved back then, and you were giving me more than I ever needed or wanted. Maybe if we met later in life, it could’ve worked but…” Her voice pattered out into a whisper.

Bokuto exhaled deeply through his nose.

_One last time. Just one more time._

He moved first, stepping forward and reaching out towards her in the same fluid movement. His fingers on his left hand pulled at her right wrist away from the book. As he inched closer again he shifted his grip, angling his hand so that their palms could meet, so his fingers could thread themselves between the spaces of her before he let them idly hang between their bodies.

“I love you.” He breathed, feeling his free hand tremble. “I think a part of me always will.”

He squeezed her hand again, feeling her nails press deep into his skin as the confession rolled off his tongue.

“And I’m okay if you never loved me back in the same way. I’m okay with being somewhere in your heart, no matter who insignificant that piece is. I just…”

He stopped himself.

The words clicked in her mind, and the sadden smile widened at the reality spreading out before them.

_I’m ready to move on, so please give me one more goodbye._

Bokuto Koutarou was resigning himself from whatever place he held in her life, and letting Oikawa Tooru become the only thing she needed.

“For now.” The spiker’s voice rung clear. “I need distance _for now_ . The Olympics are over and the next V League season isn’t until next year. I’m giving 100% of myself to Akaashi Keiji before anyone else can… I  can’t allow myself to make the same mistake I made with _you_ . And it’s unfair to him if I don’t reconcile what we have – and it’s unfair to _you_ because of how it ended between us.”

His thumb rubbed a small circle on the back of her hand.

“But when everything is fine between me and ‘Kaashi, I’ll come back to pick up the friendship we left behind… I swear.”

There was a second of silence.

“Swearing’s never looked good on you, Bo.”

“Neither did fucking up what we had.”

(Name) bit her tongue. She wanted to tell him they were both to blame – that every party in their story had stakes in why things never worked, that life worked in a way that neither of them could really control – but the look in his eye told her that he wouldn’t hear that type of comfort, that all he needed was his own sanity and knowledge.

“Give me one second…” The writer slowly retracted her hand from his now lax grip and side stepped him, quickly walking further into her apartment. His eyes shifted to follow her, watching as she placed the book down onto the shelf with one hand and retrieved another one with her other. And then she was back in front of him, pressing the item into his still opened palm. He looked down for a second and-

“It’s a copy of the newest edition of ‘Observations’. It looks like all the other recent copies we’ve made but it’s got special annotations here and there, and two prefaces – one by Oe Kenzaburo and one by myself. It doesn’t get released till next month.” She let go of it, forcing the spiker to hold it firmly in both hands. “You said Akaashi-san doesn’t have a copy at all, right? Maybe you can use this to win him over.”

The grin that swept across his face made her heart swell. She missed that look.

“Thank you… Really.”

“Don’t mention it, just helping a friend out.”

He slipped the book into his bag, fingers trembling at how well the encounter had been going. He didn’t anticipate civility – frankly he didn’t _know_ what to expect after two years of radio silence.

When he lifted his head, he refrained from sucking in a sharp breath.

They were too close.

Had he taken that step forward? Had she? Or were they always so unbearably close?

_One more time. One more._

_Back off. Move on._

And then he coughed, forcing himself to turn around and hide the slow creeping flush that threatened to surge up his neck.

“I’ll, uh, I’ll keep you updated on what he says.” Bokuto murmured, moving closer to the door and resting against the knob.

“You say that as if Akaashi doesn’t have his head up your ass.”

The comment made him reel, whipping his head around to look at the bemused expression the writer wore. Confident. Borderline zealous. The same one she used when she _knew_ she was right.

He found himself nodding. She was only ever wrong about herself, so he could completely trust in her words.

“Tell Tooru I said hi, yeah?”

“Of course. Tell Akaashi not to be a stranger anymore.”

“Yeah… I’ll see you soon (Name).”

And then he was gone as quick as he came, letting the door separate them for an indefinite amount of time.

 

* * *

 

“Y’know it’s funny – the last time we were at a wedding the roles were reversed.”

“And yet in both situations I’m still the more attractive one.”

“(Name)~”

The writer laughed, pressing her lips to the rim of a flute of champagne, eyes scanning the layout of the ballroom.

It was a Thursday evening in a hotel in Shibuya, the day that her endearingly annoying friends had finally moved into the next part of their relationship. It was all for show, technically. The law hadn’t necessarily changed to allow formalised weddings for same-sex couples, so the ceremony she and the other guests had witnessed was merely for show, and partially to affirm that they would both be entitled to the other’s possessions in their union. Makki had entered the Matsukawa family register in a formal ceremony in Miyagi two months prior; an even quieter affair between both families.

(Name) watched as the newlyweds greeted and conversed with their guests, a mix of close work colleagues and old high school friends. She had done her part, talking to a few new faces and remembering names and relationships she was sure the two of them had mentioned to her in passing.

But for most of the night she was sat alone in the seat she was assigned to.

Oikawa – bless his ‘kind’ heart – sought to keep her company after his own duties as Best Man #1 (he insisted #1, because “How is _Iwa-chan_ #1 when I’m standing _right here?_ ). Company, though not necessarily needed, was somewhat appreciated.

“You look good.” She commented, finally letting her gaze travel back to the brunet, who sat to her left and was leaning all too casually against the side of her chair. Her left hand was trapped in the hold of both of his, massaging the skin in strange and irregular patterns.

“If you aren’t careful Iwa-chan might steal me from you.”

She scoffed. “He can have you for all I care.”

The setter laughed again, taking in the way the golden liquid inside the glass swirled and bubbled around idly.

With the Olympics having ended less than a week prior and the rigorous work that still needed to be down with the ceremony, Oikawa barely saw (Name). As per the months leading up to the Games, they merely talked through phone calls at ungodly hours of the night. And since the writer had been spending time in Bunkyo and not with _him_ in Yokohoma, the distance slowly begun to take its toll on him.

And _only_ him, it seemed.

“Hey.”

“That’s what horses eat.”

“I’ve been thinking…”

“That’s a bad thing.”

“We’ve been working, right?”

The writer froze and turned her head to face him, taking in the way he had straightened himself up in the aftermath of his question. Gaze stern, borderline game face.

It made her own mouth drop in disbelief.

“You choose to use a _wedding_ as your segue? Really?”

The setter shrugged, running his thumb over her knuckles. “It worked last time.”

“And it was gonna work this time?”

“You’ve yet to run away.”

“You neglect the fact that Makki would slit my throat if I ran _during his wedding_ . I ran _after_ Makoto’s wedding – there’s a difference.”

“I argue that I’m very aware and am using this to my advantage.”

The look in his eye shifted for a moment, almost darkening with desperation, as if he _needed_ an answer to his question. She relented, slowly lowering her glass flute on to the table and turning her body to face him a little more.

“I mean, it’s something.”

“But it’s always been _something_ with us.” Oikawa retorted with a quick eye roll. “But sometimes _‘something’_ doesn’t necessarily work. For normal people maybe, but you forget that we’ve never been normal.” He sassed back, lifting his shoulders into a half-hearted shrug.

The writer narrowed her eyes at him, slowly deciphering the colours that swirled behind his deep brown eyes. The music playing in the background of the ballroom faded, followed by the sounds of distant conversations from people that lingered near them.

She frowned. “Do _you_ not think we’ve been-”

“No!” He interjected, eyes wide at the accusation and voice strained from the sudden volume. Oikawa coughed quickly before glancing around, double checking the closest individuals to see if they were listening in. “It’s not that, I do! I just…”

She adjusted their hands, moving so she could take both of his large ones into her own gentle grasp. (Name) squeezed slightly, letting him know he could continue.

“After the first year of us, I thought it was fine y’know… But these last six months have been weird – to _me_ at least.” Oikawa began again, letting his voice trail off into a resigned sigh. “I can’t be the only one who felt that this was way too hard this time around. Like, yeah, we live together in Yokohama, but you’ve got your separate place in Bunkyo for your work, and I’m always going to be busy with volleyball…”

Oikawa moved so his hands covered hers again, forcing her palms together.

“Is it wrong if I want to see more of you?”

Eyes soft, the writer was unable to stop the exasperation appearing on her face. “I want to see you too. Fuck, I wouldn’t have gone to watch you if I didn’t.”

His look darkened again for a moment, a frown appearing on his face. “You told me you weren’t coming.”

“It was a logical rouse.” She quipped. “If you knew, you wouldn’t have performed as well as you did.”

“I also wouldn’t have fucked up my knee.”

“You fuck up your knee as if it’s breathing, dear, don’t try and guilt me.”

Oikawa nodded thoughtfully. “But you’re not, like, _weirded out_ by the fact the entire country knows about us now?”

“Regardless of if I was or was not weirded out, it’d be hard to avoid after you planted one on me in front of thousands of people.”

“Millions,” he corrected, “Iwa-chan said his camera guy accidentally filmed it for broadcast.”

“Oh, that soothes my introversion.”

“And yet you’re still here.”

“Strange,” she pondered aloud, “almost as if I actually like you.”

He gasped dramatically, a borderline sarcastic one that exaggerated the faint creases in his skin. It wasn’t loud enough to attract attention, but enough to make him look like a big enough idiot in her eyes.

“You admitted it?”

“And?” She dismissed, “did you have a bet with one of those losers about if I would say it?”

“I just assumed I’d be the first to say it – your emotional fortitude is no joke.”

The writer scoffed, leaning back in her seat. Oikawa felt her hand heat up, and a thin layer of sweat slowly began to pool in the palm. “Then what does that say about yours?”

“S’about the same; cause I don’t think you completely suck either.”

A laugh escaped her lips, and he smirked “But yes…” She murmured, running her thumb against the pulse point in his wrist. “I think we’ve been working. And yes, I want to keep working on it more. You’ve got me, I’ve got you, we’ll figure it out.”

For a moment, (Name) thought she saw relief in his eyes – as if he were hiding more concern from her than he wanted to admit. It unsettled her, the thought that maybe he wasn’t willing anymore, or that _he_ believed _she_ was slowly giving up.

As if giving up was an option for them anymore.

But in the brief moment their eyes met, the concern ebbed away as quickly as it quelled. Oikawa smiled softly, letting the corners of his lips curl up ever so slightly and melt into he swell of his cheeks. (Name) rolled her eyes and jabbed the toe of her heel into his shin.

“Next time, you grow a pair and you talk to me properly yeah? None of this wallowing in your own self-pity without me.”

His lip twitched. “As long as you promise not to run away.”

“What are we, 23 again?”

“Two years is not a long time to grow up.”

“But we’ve been trying.” His fingers loosened around her hands, slowly inching towards the tips of her own, trailing goose bumps in their wake. “And that’s like, half the battle.”

With a curt tug of his fingers, her right hand unfurl, letting the brunet slowly snake his own right hand into position. Carefully, his pink wedged itself under the knuckle of her own and straightened it out, quickly wrapping around the bend tightly. (Name) responded in suit instinctively, an action Makoto had forced her to do back in their youth, a wave of nostalgia rocking her core.

“A pinkie promise?”

“It works with Takeru, it’ll work with us.”

The noise that exited (Name)’s throat was inhuman, only discernible by the confusion that laced the undertones. Of course he would resort to childish behaviour, she thought to herself, because what else could one expect from a guy like him.

The look on Oikawa’s face was one of contentment mixed with mirth – an amusement at the fact she had been so willing to reciprocate the action, almost unperturbed at how awkward yet natural it felt for the both of them.

“This is the most unconventional thing we’ve ever done, period.” (Name) deadpanned.

“More unconventional than us dating?”

“Is that what this is?” She sassed. “I thought it was a mutual coexistence with the benefits of being a realistic couple without the necessary baggage most people have.”

He blinked at her.

“What benefit do you have in dating me?”

“I ask myself that question every day.”

“See, _that_ sounds more like you. Not this ‘maybe I like you’ shit.”

“It’s called maturity.”

“Again, your emotional fortitude is slipping and it’s not right.”

“Guess that means you’re gonna have to start looking after me…” She shrugged. In one fluid movement, she lifted her thumb and reached across the distance of their connection and pressed the soft pad against his own. “No takesies backsies, you stamped it.”

“Okay, _now_ it’s this is the most unconventional and the absolute _stupidest_ thing we’ve done.” It was Oikawa’s turn to jest, glancing up and down to her gaze and to their interlocked digits.

“Not unless you don’t stamp back, you ass.”

He chuckled, just enough to make his chest rumble and shoulders lift from the exertion, but not before manoeuvring so he could press his thumb flush against his partner’s. “I’ll leave myself in your care then…” He answered, leaning towards her.

Their lips brushed together softly, the same way they always did when the world slowed down around them, before suddenly their foreheads bashed together. A sharp pain flared from the centre of their faces where their noses collided, making the couple jolt back from the shock.

“You two are disgusting. First you make me lose my bet, then you do this to spite me. Absolutely disgusting.”

“Fucking Eyebrow Boy…” The setter grumbled, untangling their hands so he could rub the red spots that now dotted his face.

“Ditching the husband for losers like us, are you Mattsun?” (Name) chimed, swivelling around in order to face the groom who stood directly behind her chair.

“For good reason, trust me, I don’t want to interrupt the kissy time that you two really don’t deserve,” Matsukawa replied, running a hand through the once neatly coiffed curly lock, “but his parents told us they hadn’t met you yet, and now he’s set on having you three meet.”

“He knows there’s a reason I’ve been avoiding them right?” She fired back quickly, letting her gaze flicker to the table where the trio were. Makki’s parents sat opposite him in the far corner, grinning wildly at something he said. Their eyes locked, and for a moment (Name) heard his voice in her head demand she walk over there.

“I figured, no doubt he figured. But the Hanamaki clan are stubborn, and if I suffer then you suffer with me.”

“Again-”

“You’ll warm up to the idea of sandwich, trust me, (Name).” Mattsun finally turned to address his Best Man, quirking a brow up at the way the male continued to massage the bridge of his nose. “You don’t mind me stealing her away from you for a little, do ya Oiks?”

“Not like you don’t do it already…” He grumbled back with an eyeroll. “But just this once, since you did get married.”

“The generosity is truly unbeatable, dunno how you snagged him.”

“Life works in mysterious ways, and blessings are normally shitty anyway.”

“Hey!”

“If the groom wants me over there I’ll be over there in a bit – need that mental preparation.”

Mattsun clapped a hand on her bare shoulder, squeezing the skin affectionately in thanks. “I’ll let Hiro know – and reminder, don’t’ swear in front of them, his mum might smack you.”

(Name) brushed his hand away, shooing him off with the other so he could return to his husband. Before Mattsun left, he ruffed Oikawa’s hair, ignoring the disgruntled moan Oikawa let escape from his lips, before trailing off the same way he came.

“You’re coming with me.” The writer deadpanned as she stood, brushing her slightly clammy hands against the fabric wrapped around her.

“Pardon?”

“They’re gonna hate me, they don’t hate you, maybe we can even out the reaction they’ll give me if we show up together.” Came her explanation as she watched Mattsun’s figure reach her future destination. The man’s grin widened at the concern that flashed on her face.

“What makes you think they’ll like me?”

“I said they _don’t hate_ you, that doesn’t mean they like you. I just need to push they hate from me on to you.” Her gaze met his again. “Wanna take one for the team?”

A glint flashed in his eye.

“Only if you come home to Yokohama tonight.”

(Name)’s eyes narrowed and then softened in the same second, and a soft sigh left her lips, shoulders deflating as the air left her lungs.

“Yeah, fine, just make sure they don’t hate me.”

“That’s a miracle, but I’ll make it work.”

Oikawa stood up alongside her, rolling his neck from side to side. Bemused, he reached for her hand as he stepped out from between the table and chairs, letting her arm wrap around the bend of his elbow. Her fingers clenched around the muscle a few times, squeezing it as a means of comforting her own nerves.

“Ready?”

“No one ever is.”

“My sentiments exactly.”

The writer pinched his skin, and the setter nudged his elbow into the side of her ribs.

Barely.

Subtly.

Comfortably.

Just like everything else they did for each other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AND ITS DONE!
> 
> For the sentimental bullshit and MORE INFORMATION like the Q&A and future work, go ahead to Chapter 32 where you'll find all that waiting for you! There's isn't enough room here for me to vent my sappy emotions.


	32. Q&A + ANNOUNCEMENTS

Thank you very much to everyone who not only completed the survey and submitted a question, but also gave out some kudos and commented across all of ATAON! No matter what point you joined this journey, I’m so thankful for all your love and support and dedication to the story of Oiks and Writer; it means a lot to me that you’ve stuck around this far.

So what next? I got a whole shitload of questions – and a lot of non-questions that made me squeal in the middle of my lectures – to answer and I’m hyped to expose my soul to you in the aftermath of it all. As any open Q&A would, there were a few repeated questions that were submitted, albeit with slight variations in the phrasing or concerns. I grouped questions with similarities together so that I could answer everything efficiently.

If you still have questions, then feel free to leave them as a comment and I’ll happily answer them there. I’ll always try to make time to come back and clear the air if we really need it.

And now, on to the Q&A!

_A lot of these answers are long because of how broad the questions were. Also I like talking about my process and work since it might help someone reading this. But there aren’t TL;DRs. Don’t be lazy._

~~

**_How did you come up with idea for your story? // Where did you find inspiration to plan and write the entirety of ATAON? // What was your inspiration for this fic?// How did you come up with ideas whenever you write a story?_ **

For me, ideas always come around in weird ways. Most of the time I have a question that pops into my head, and then I mull it over until I decide to go somewhere with it. They tend to start from simple ‘what if’ questions, or things I see in the world around me and want to talk about.

ATAON in particular has a much more personal beginnings. I was travelling home after meeting up with an old friend, and they started talking about this classmate we had that a lot of our graduating class didn’t like – and also how much I disliked her. She was better than me at everything – and I mean _everything_ – and despite every effort I made in trying to be The Best™ at things I love, she was always better because of how naturally good she was at everything I _wished_ I was. Regardless of how hard I tried, I was never going to be better than her. And it was repetitive blow to my self-esteem for my entire high school life. I started thinking about why I disliked her – since, y’know, age and distance often provides perspective –  and then I realised that everything about myself I hated had manifested in the form of her. I could see that the parts of her she was praised for, that she took pride in, were the parts I detested of myself. And if _I_ wasn’t allowed to enjoy those things, then what gave _her_ the right to do so.

Later that evening when I got home I binged on Haikyuu, and as I watched it dawned on me that I was more alike Oikawa than I had ever considered.

I got to thinking about my life a little more and kept comparing it to what we saw of Oikawa in the anime. And then while I was thinking about him, I was considering what he would do if confronted with the parts of himself he hated, and what that would mean to him as an adult as opposed to a teenager. I needed to read this from a different perspective in order to accept it, or at least _begin_ to do so.

A few weeks later, I had the framework of A Thousand and One Nights planned out to near completion and had wrote the first draft of Chapter 1.

 

 ** _How do you decide on the plot of your stories? Do you have a rough outline of the whole store when you start writing or do you see where the plot bunny take you?_** // **_How did you plan it out? Like the process, did you write down notes, research?_**

I’m gonna say this now – I take _great pride_ in my planning processes when it comes to writing stories.

When I first started writing fanfiction, I would let the plot bunny hop where it wished. These days I am _very thorough_ , and ATAON became the first fan-work I had aggressively planned out in the same way I would my own original story ideas.

I started out with noting the beginnings of ATAON, listing where every character stood in their developmental arc _at least_ one in-story month before the first chapter. Then I listed the end-game results I wanted to see in my protagonists and the supporting cast we would follow throughout the entire story. From there I worked backwards, considering what specific events would need to happen in order to reach the end-game; who needed to have conflict with who, who would confess to who, what fights and arguments took place where. At this point, I was only focusing on major plot points and spent a long of time reorganising the flow of the entire story.

Once this main skeleton was in place, I started to rework the real-life timeline of the lives of Oikawa and Writer into something more fluid and believable for the sake of the plot. It’s here that I also spent a lot of time fine tuning events and the overall direction of the story, making sure everything connects and flows logically from one plot point to another.

Then, I wrote an overview for each chapter in chronological order. These overviews gave a basic gist of what I wanted to happen in the chapter, noted scene and POV changes, and also gave me space to draft dumb pieces of dialogue or descriptions. These overviews also varied in size and detail depending on how much direction I needed in writing it. So like, Chapter 10’s overview had 2 sentences total whereas 21’s overview was, like, a fucking wall of text.

With that all done on my laptop, I used my phone as a quick note taker. Whenever I had an idea for a scene or for a snippet of dialogue or world-building, I would write it down under the chapter heading and then use that when I got to that point in the story.

Concerning research…

 

**_How did you do your research (about Japan, the prizes, volleyball) etc?_ **

My main goal in researching was accuracy, naturality, and realism.

I had more prior knowledge concerning Japan and Japanese quirks when planning ATAON. I learnt Japanese in school, and when you do formalised language study it’s kind of a given that you learn about etiquette and culture, history, and tourist spots. I also went to Japan in early 2017, maybe 3 months before I started writing the story. A lot of the locations and things the characters do come from my experiences. So Bo and Writer’s dates were things I did over there. I used a lot of photos I had taken as reference material too.

There was still stuff I had to look into, though, don’t get me wrong. I wanted accuracy in this story, and I was determined to work for it.

This was mainly the niche aspects of the story that helped the characterisation of our cast as a whole. I was looking at university schedules and campus maps, as well as maps of different train lines and prefectures to make specific travel routes that seemed reasonable. For example, Writer isn’t just characterised as a talented writer, but a gifted literary analyst and critic  too. When she signed with Kodansha, it would have been logical for her to consider things like distance and travel from preferred university campuses and such. The main campuses of Tokyo University were are located in Bunkyo, which is where Kodansha’s Headquarters are. It would, then, make sense for Writer to live nearby since she really dislikes travelling long distances – that would make Mejirodai a suitable choice as a residential and educational district of the ward.

The prizes and the volleyball tournaments/international competitions were just general browsing and googling as opposed to intense investigation. I scoured the history of men’s volleyball and its tournaments in order to make an accurate draft of a roster for the FIVB and the Asian Games. The literary prizes were, again, just things I knew of but needed more details for.

I admit, there were some strokes of sheer dumb luck. Shinpoincho was something I hadn’t expected to find; and the only reason I started looking for it was because I realised that there were many different wards in Tennoji and I needed Writer to be a bit more well-off than she wanted. Same with the Ribbon Chapel and the specific locations of university faculties across certain campuses. All happy accidents that made the story more worthwhile and interesting for me.

At the end of the day, it was a matter of asking “Does Japan have XYZ, or something close to it, that I can use to make this believable?” and then spending hours finding something I was satisfied with. Wikipedia was my best friend for general stuff, and that's all you really need.

 

**_What was the theme, and how did you stay consistent with it for the entirety of the story?_ **

This story is a bildungsroman (or coming-of-age) narrative so the themes are centralised on maturity and, to an even greater extent, love. And I mean love romantically and platonically and individually. It’s about accepting who you were and who you are, in order to become who you can be – and that weakness and strength are cut from the same cloth, and you can’t necessarily be one without the other. At the same time, change doesn’t happen overnight, and you take change in stride as opposed to a last-ditch attempt and ‘fixing’ yourself.

I think the main thing I did to stay consistent with the themes and the messages I wanted to convey was writing each chapter with the mindset of “Okay, what does this chapter do to help our characters get to the end-game I have planned, and is that realistic to the message I’m tryna get across to the readership?” Constantly asking these questions as both a writer and a reader reminded me of what this story was really about – if I didn’t do that, the story would have gone down a direction that wouldn’t reflect my original intentions.

 

**_Why did you chose to write this sort of storyline?_ **

This story started out as a self-reflective piece. Like, I was originally going to address my own insecurities that I saw in Oikawa as a means of trying to grow up a little more. And I love bildungsroman stories, so that’s another reason for it.

But as time went on, I was compelled by the idea that maybe it would help someone else.

Coming-of-age stories – and story-telling in general – have always been about portraying the teachings and life-lessons you wish someone had told you when you needed them in your past, to someone who may actually need them in the present. I _wish_ I had someone tell me the things everyone tells Writer and Oiks when I was younger and dumber, but no one did. So now it’s up to me to make sure someone else gets this advie before it’s too late for them. And I think it’s been working? Maybe? From some of the feedback it sounds like I helped? Maybe?

 

**_How did you keep yourself motivated to write considering how large of a project it was?_ **

A few motivators came into play. The first being that I didn’t want to be _that fanfic writer_ that started a story as emotive as ATAON to just abandon it.

~~stares off into the distance at my kpop scenarios blog~~

The second was because I felt like this story _had_ to be told. It felt like I read every Oikawa x Reader story on every website, and they always felt too short, or too simple in what was happening on the page. There isn’t anything wrong with that, don’t get me wrong. But in series about development and growth, I wanted to see a story that reflected that – or at the very least played with these ideas. And because Oikawa and Writer’s own character arcs were very close to me, I felt obligated to finish it, even if it killed me.

And third, I wanted to write it for you all reading this – both past, present and future! Creators make things so other people can enjoy it, and you all became just as invested in the tale of Oiks and Writer as I was, so I wanted to show you everything I had in store for them. The rate of content production for Haikyuu has slowed down a little (cause fuck me where is Season 4???) and we all need something to hold us over until then.

 

**_What got you into Haikyuu? More specifically, what got you into writing this fic about these characters (Oiks, Bo, Mattsun, etc) from Haikyuu?_ **

Getting into Haikyuu was such a happy accident. I was watching one of those “Guess the Anime OP” videos and the Fly High OP came on. I was like “This??? Is a bop??? What anime???”

Suddenly I was up-to-date with all three seasons and was religiously crying at every manga update. That was last year, and I have yet to look back.

For why _this combination_ of characters particular? I love a good reader-insert, and like I said I felt like I read them all. There are some really good ones out there! But a lot of the dynamics or premises started becoming a little repetitive to me, and so were the combination of characters.

~~like I’m all about manager reader, but everyone does manager reader. Also injured reader? Yeah, read all of those too.~~

So ATAON was my way of seeing all these characters from the anime and manga weirdly collide in circumstances that take place outside the world of volleyball we’ve seen them so involved in. I wanted this to be a story my audience could really sink their teeth into and tear  apart to analyse and question and theorise over dialogue and description and interaction.

 

**_How long does it take for you to write down one chapter?_ **

The time frame varied from chapter to chapter, my dear.

For something like 10, 16, 23, and 27, it didn’t take very long. Like I said before, I had a lot of snippets and scenes written out from the get-go. Those plot-dependent chapters and the emotional ones had almost the bulk of their content written in that form. All I needed to do when the time came was connect them to form multiple coherent scenes. This, on average, took 1-2 days for me to be completely satisfied with the outcome.

For others, like 13, 17, 21, and 22, it was harder. There was either more research and planning that needed to be done, cross-referencing with previous chapters and the overview and character details I had created, or it was just very emotionally taxing. A lot of the time I was forcing myself to step back and re-evaluate and revise every little thing to make sure I was saying exactly what I wanted to say. On average, it was like 3-8 days.

And then from 17 onwards, the chapters were beta read by my lovely home slice [Arichuloco](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arichuloco/profile) – and that added a few more days to the process depending on the feedback I got.

 

**_How long have you been writing for? // I'm sure someone else will already ask this but just to be safe: how long have you been writing?? It's obvious so much love and attention went into your story and I can't help but feel like this isn't your first ever._ **

As a reader-insert/fanfic author? Since 2014, at 16 years old.

But writing in general? For a very long time.

I remember learning to read and write at, like, 3 or 4. The whole writing schtick and the dreams of being an author didn’t kick in till I was 8; my literacy level was higher than my teachers anticipated, so I got stuck reading actual novels instead of those standard short story books they were using. And because I was reading ‘more advanced’ books for my age, I was writing at a higher level and learning how to craft narratives much faster than my classmates. And I just kept going with it.

And no, this isn’t my first rodeo with writing a full length novel – fanfiction or otherwise This current style of writing and storytelling didn’t kick in until I was, like, 16. I wrote a book, hated it, never tried to solicit it to a publisher, and then said fuck it I’ll write fanfiction instead. My writing style back then is a little cringy – just cause I was trying to fit the standards seen on other writing blogs at the time – and I kind of left anything like ATAON off the internet until I felt confident enough.

~~I admit, I still don’t feel confident, but we all start somewhere~~

 

**_Do you have any other works uploaded elsewhere? I was surprised to find such an amazing story as ATAON as the only thing you’ve published on AO3!_ **

[This is a link to my tumblr ](waywardscenarios.tumblr.com/)which, I believe, is a vey lack lustre when compared to ATAON. It’s a KPOP scenarios blog mainly; my AO3 account will definitely be for anime and other projects.

ATAON was the biggest risk I think I’ve ever taken as a writer, and the only story I’ve ever really finished and _liked_ as an entire product. But thank you! I’m glad you enjoyed it!

 

**_All the poems within this series are really amazing! Do you write them yourself or do you have someone to help you sometimes (your own lil Writer-chan)?_ **

Thank you very much! I actually wrote them all myself – these days I am my own Writer-chan.

~~Stares across the ocean to my Makki-Makki~~

There are 20 poems in total for the _Observations_ anthology. I wrote full length poems for all of them, even the ones not explicitly mentioned or quoted by any of the characters. I don’t write poetry often, so it was fun to experiment with the form.

 

**_Will we ever get to see the rest of the poems from the anthology, and if so will we ever learn what each one is about/inspired by?_ **

In addition to having the entire anthology written out, I’ve also got some brief notes on the inspirations and meanings Writer-chan would have used and thought about. If you want me to post them then I’ll happily oblige!

~~Anything to keep this story and fill the growing void in my heart tbh~~

 

 ** _The way you portray characters is really amazing for me; there’s so many layers and complexity to their personality, their thoughts, their actions/decision compared to when we see the characters in the anime or mange. How do you take the info about them that is canon and apply them to the same characters but in your story – your narration/description? (What’s your thought process when you have these characters – say, Oikawa for example – and you have to write his thoughts and actions, keeping it close to canon as possible and deciding like “okay this is definitely how he would talk or act in this kind of situation, in this written universe of mine”)_** // **_How were you able to develop each characters’ personalities so deeply? // I have a comment if that’s okay, I really loved the way you wrote Bokuto (and all of the characters honestly). So for the question~ What inspired your depiction of the characters? Sorry if that doesn’t make much sense ._** ** _°(_** ** _ಗ_** ** _д_** ** _ಗ_** ** _。_** ** _)°._**

~~I love that we got three different versions of this question and they’re all so differently phrased – like, idk that’s really cute to me.~~

My main concern with the appropriation of these characters was making sure that I wasn’t compromising the integrity of why they were so loveable in the original form. And to do that at a level I was happy with took a lot of analysis.

The first step was understanding the _canon_ character as well as I could as opposed to the _fanon_ identity. So take Oiks for example. The fandom has a tendency to whittle him down into a guy who’s whiny and obsessed with Iwa-chan and aliens and is out for Kageyama’s blood. And there’s nothing wrong with that – especially because it’s partially true to an extent – but to see him as _only_ that is a disservice to how interesting of a character he is. Like I mentioned in Question 1, I understood the flaws in his personality as insecurity and self-hatred, which opened the floor to fleshing him out as a more real person.

Then I balanced _canon_ and _fanon_. Because I love both versions of Oiks, I had to find a way to make him realistic and relatable, as well as entertaining. It’s give and take – and it’s all relative to the storyline. Like when did it make sense for Meme-kawa to appear, and where did he need to not be around. In this part I wrote out a character profile that detailed the personality, what made him act a certain way, and the reasons why certain moments of development needed to happen. Oiks had to come to terms with inferiority and understand that good things come in time, even if you wait forever for it. I also gave him a few more motivations that seemed to fit the theme of the story or elaborated on what we saw in the original text.

 _And then_ I repeated the process for all of the main characters – that is, Oikawa, Bokuto and Writer-chan. The supporting cast got shorter analysis and profiles, but they still had enough for me to work with. This helps with understanding the way they mesh, reflect, or contrast with each other. That makes them more realistic, especially if they all start to share ideologies or have interwoven histories.

Inspiration wise on why I had this approach? I really enjoy complexity of human personalities and how they can contradict and support each other at the same time. I also wanted to run with the obvious and secret flaws and strengths we could gain from what hints we had in have in the manga and anime and see how they could either positively or negatively impact these characters in the future. So Bokuto, for example, enjoys being relied on and has a sense of pride as the Captain and Ace of Fukurodani. But how far does that desire to be a pillar of strength go, and how badly can it backfire on him? That sort of question really intrigues me, and it made me want to explore that route of possibility.

For, like, actual advice on all of this? You gotta figure out your own processes. I found it helpful to look at real life people. Like, modelling a character’s decision-making process on different philosophical theories or personality types, or even the logic of a close friend or family member that you know really well. Because at the end of the day, you want these characters to be real so why not base them *vaguely* off real people? Also look for examples in written work – Horikoshi (the mangaka for BNHA) is a fantastic example of realistic portrayals of different relationships, personalities, and dynamics.

Also start small – **do not** try to write a really complex character off the bat. And keep your casts smaller in size. Start with one of those character creator survey things you can find online and pick and choose what areas you want to specifically focus on from that. Familiarise yourself with that type of process and then expand once you feel more confident in your abilities.

~~seriously don’t be stupid like me and have a cast of a fucking million people; both OCs and canon~~

 

**_Why did you choose Oikawa and Bokuto to be the love interests?_ **

Oikawa was chosen as a love interest because this story was his, just as much as it was Writer-chan’s.

Bokuto is a different story. When planning, I wanted there to be a minor rival for Oikawa to deal with as a means of coming to terms with himself and Writer’s similarities, differences, wants, and needs. I love the dynamic of BoKuroOi, and the choices naturally narrowed down to either Kuroo or Bokuto as a rival. Kuroo has a lot of content written for him and while I love him, Bo deserves way more love than he’s currently given. I also thought it’d be fun to normalise Bo? He comes off as a very full-on character in fanfiction, so that was a little challenge for me to try and get readers to see him as something other than the captain who acts more like a child.

Also, I felt Oiks and Bo were somewhat opposites? And they could learn a thing or two from each other. And Bo doesn’t have boundaries or reservations in actively pushing people to be better in the same way Oiks does. So having Bo be the catalyst for both Oiks and Writer’s development seemed really interesting and unexpected from a narrative perspective.

 

**_What was the most enjoyable moment to write?_ **

~~All of it.~~

But if I had to choose just _one_ moment, it would be the scenes in Chapter 10 where Bo coaxes Writer into dancing, and the balcony scene that follows after that. It was one of the first scenes I envisioned in the planning stages, but also there’s a lot of foreshadowing and set up for development.

I mean, this is the first real time Writer gives into someone so easily, even if it is out of fear of her own secrets. And Oikawa experiences the crumbling of plans he thought would be foolproof at the sight of Writer and Bo on the balcony. Not only that, “Tiny Dancer” and “Can’t Take My Eyes Off You” are somewhat symbolic of the emerging relationships. Both are love songs, and can be applied to Bo’s relationship with the woman he comes to love. The former reflects this kind of care free love that exists between them, even if it is something that doesn’t end up lasting through the story (this is mainly inspired by the bridge of the song, and the history of what it came to mean). The latter is a given – it’s Bo asking Writer to love him back, or at least give him the same attention he gives her…

 

~~_HA JUST KIDDING THE BEST MOMENTS ARE WHENEVER MAKKI AND MATTSUN ARE ON SCREEN CAN SOMEONE SAY BEST BOYS!?!?!?!_ ~~

 

**_Which part was the hardest for you to write and why? // What was the hardest part of the story to write?_ **

The first things that came to mind were Writer-chan’s awards and Oikawa’s volleyball tournaments. But in hindsight they weren’t hard to write, just annoying in fleshing out the timeline.

My next option is pretty obvious: the fight between Writer and her father.

It was the only part I felt frustrated with as a writer. I planned for this to be emotionally visceral and I felt stunted in writing it because I didn’t want it to come off as melodramatic, or unlikely or unrelatable. And the dynamic that needed to be shown between Writer and her dad was important in kick starting her need to be better. But with that being said, I also wanted to portray a complex father-daughter dynamic between them where and that meant trying to frame this part in a way that showed both of them off as the bad guy – her father in trying to use his daughter as a commodity, and Writer in not having a proper outlet to be angry and express emotional vulnerability in her life.  It was also the only chapter where I had _nothing_ pre-written on my phone, so finding the right direction to take the narrative at this point was beyond stressful.

 

**_If you could choose one chapter to represent all of ATAON, which would you choose?_ **

~~why do you keep asking me hard question fsedfzosewif~~

I definitely think you have to see this work as a whole picture in order to truly capture the message… But if I had to choose just one chapter…

Chapter 13 is where it all kind kicks off? A lot goes on in the chapter – for Writer, Oiks _and_ Bo – and it becomes this pivotal moment where everything that happens further on in the narrative is either directly or indirectly caused by it. Without it, Writer may never have acknowledged the other deep-rooted problems with Nakamura, Oikawa and Writer would’ve have begun to understand each other, and Bo would come to learn that this night was the night things started to go wrong for what he and Writer had. And I think that’s why it was taxing as well? Because there was so much riding on this _one chapter_ and if I didn’t do it justice nothing else would have made sense.

 

**_Is this story finished forever or will there bits and pieces added on, like an epilogue or one-shots? // Will there be an epilogue for ATAON? // Would there ever be a likelihood of an epilogue for ATAON?_ **

Don’t you worry your pretty little heads dearies; I have _plenty_ of extra content in mind for ATAON. The epilogue that I posted was always planned to be a surprise bonus chapter, but I do have other one-shots planned out already. And I can always post the poems if I run out of things to do. In short, there’ll always be something more to explore with our idiots. I’ll always come back here and add to it, I just love it too much.

~~A part of me also really wanted to write ‘A Moth to Flame’ and ‘Dragon’s Tears’ but then the saner part of me said no, go fuck yourself you absolute moron.~~

 

**_Are you satisfied with how ATAON concluded? Are there things that you wish you delved into more?_ **

As a whole, I’m very satisfied with the way things ended with ATAON. But having regrets after finishing a work of 200,000 words is completely expected.

I wish I didn’t make you all really like the Bo plotline? Like I feel a lot of the subtle nods to Bokuto’s own problems and flaws were overshadowed by how much he _loved_ Writer, and that overwhelming affection distracted a lot of us from the real problems that he needed to face as a character. I also wished I could have brought Natsuki into the picture a little more. She was originally going to be hired by Kodansha and then be this weird recurring character that pushed Writer's buttons in the same ways Oiks did, but it didn’t feel right as the story evolved. Also in a few of the original drafts, Ushijima and Oikawa slowly come to terms with each other, and that would’ve been interesting to explore – like them resolving their rivalry with each other. I wanted to talk about Akaashi and Writer and Iwaizumi and Writer a little more as well, just because I think those dynamics would’ve been fun.

Other than that, I’m pretty content with how everything else panned out.

 

**_How you implemented any random Easter Eggs/inside jokes that readers haven’t noticed but you take pleasure in? // Do you have any funny head canons or fun facts from the story?_ **

I mean, I think most of my jokes were really obvious? I don’t think I intentionally hide an inside joke… Or at least I don’t remember? There’s probably one – and I’ll remember it if someone brings it up. I mostly laughed at how much foreshadowing went on in early chapters and how much of it flew over your heads.

Easter egg wise, I tried my best to hammer in the idea of Writer and Oiks being completely similar to each other. There were a few others – like background characters – who may or may not come back into play in other stories within the next few I publish. Other than that, there were external references to other texts and whatever. Some of the ones I distinctly remember are:

1) Oikawa knows where everything in Writer’s apartment is because it’s the _exact_ same in his apartment whereas Bo had to learn that about her – which again, reflect the different dichotomies of their relationships.  
2) Writer stops drinking heavily at home... I wonder why, y'know?  
3) Imai Eikichi, the mangaka, shares the same name with the protagonist of GTO, Onizuka Eikichi, which was serialised by Kodansha and became one of their most popular series. Similarly, Fuyutsuki Makoto shares the same surname with Fuyutsuki Azusa who is Onizuka’s love interest in the series  
4) Pro-tip, the character isn’t straight unless explicitly stated. If anything, the straightest character is Kondou-san. And maybe Makoto.  
5) Any mention of Iwaizumi or Oiks being gorillas is a reference to the Gusari doujins.  
6) The chapter ‘Winners and Losers’ is named after the Haikyuu Stage Play.  


A lot of the other Easter eggs are spoilery to the stories I have planned, so I guess you'll have to keep an eye out for that. 

Head canons, I have plenty. I can’t say a lot of them because they may or may not spoil the other stories I have planned, but I’ll tell you some of my favourites.

1) Makki and Mattsun have running bets on everything, no matter how mundane it is.  
2) Also, Makki and Mattsun only use one of their keys but they keep both just to piss Writer off.  
3) Also, everyone knew that Iwa-chan was in love Oikawa, no one wanted to tell the latter because they wanted to see how long it took for him to notice. (Again, one of the things MatsuHana had an ongoing bet for. Mattsun lost.)  
4) Another ATAON-centric one. Poly MatsuHana with Writer is actually an ongoing joke between our Hopeless Couple. As much shit as they give Oiks for being a gold digger, those two have totally considered somehow getting Writer to fall in one of them (their first option was Mattsun) so that they could live the Easy Life.™

Some fun facts?

1) This was one of the first times I had written with music as an underlying inspiration for some things? If you didn’t catch on to it, the ATAON soundtrack is mainly composed of songs from the 70s and 80s.  
2) I went back and counted every instance where people called Oikawa something other than his actual name. There are 8 uses of ‘Shittykawa’, 1 use of ‘shitty-kawa’ as an adjective, 10 uses of ‘Fake-kawa’ (three of those are in notes), 2 uses of ‘Assikawa’, 1 ‘Assakawa’ (the other is used to describe Hisakawa), 2 ‘Fuck-face-kawa’, 1 ‘Concern-kawa’ (in notes), 2 ‘Crappykawa’ (one with the added -kun), and 45 uses of ‘Limpy’!

~~I think I may have forgotten what other insults I have called Oikawa over the course of this fic…if someone has more accurate numbers please hmu~~

3) Similarly, Writer-chan is used a total of 93 times.

 

**_Is there any meaning behind the title?_ **

_I’m so glad you asked_.

So, one of the Easter Eggs was the title’s hidden meaning.

Have you ever wondered why I start every chapter with a month and the year, but very rarely gave specific dates?

It was stylistic to an extent, but it’s pretty important.

The official ATAON timeline begins November 16, 2017 – the day Oikawa Tooru tore his ACL in a preliminary match for his final Intercollegiate. It ends August 13, 2020 in the epilogue – with the MatsuHana wedding and the promise Oikawa and Writer make there.

That, my child, is exactly 1,001 days.

1,001 nights.

Which, then, answers the big question.

How long does it take to fall in love? How long are you willing to wait?

 

**_How would you see the fic playing out if Writer-chan and Bokuto were supposed to be end-game? Was there really no way their relationship would work out, even with their differing personalities?_ **

Don’t get me wrong, I have gone on the record in the past and said that I wanted them to be together – but it would not have happened in ATAON. The only way I could see a realistic end-game for Writer-chan and Bo is if Writer had seen herself in the way Bo had from the moment they met.

What I mean is that when these two characters met, Writer never saw herself as someone who needed to improve herself all the much. All she needed were answers to solve her burnout, and even by the end of the story there are still parts of her she is unwilling to change. What I think was misconstrued about Writer was this idea that she was lonely and in need of companionship and someone to love her, and that she herself understood that _that_ was what was wrong with her.

She wasn’t. She didn’t.

She didn’t see herself as lonely or angry – she was naturally reclusive, and the only person she was ever _genuinely_ enraged at was her father. She would get defensive about people prying because she felt that she could handle her issues herself. And there was a regret in her inability to connect because of the flaws in her identity and composure. But there was a comfort to her routine, she wasn’t bothered by the parts of her other people were.  Unlike a lot of reader-inserts, Writer _knows_ that these anti-social and reclusive tendencies are flaws, but she is fine with them because they make her who she is.

And this is where Bokuto comes in; he is the reason Writer starts to see herself as lonely. He starts to see himself as someone she needs in order to make her life better. _He_ is the one that is uncomfortable with it, and slowly projects that on to her by being a constant presence in her life. _He_ is the reason she kind of thinks, maybe I’m the real problem. Which is great if Writer saw herself in that light, but again she doesn’t. And she won’t until much later in the story after she begins to acknowledge the real issues in her life post Chapter 13. And even then, Writer is still wanting to lock herself away and hide because that’s what makes sense to her.

All Writer saw in Bo was a replacement for Makoto, since he seemed eager enough to let her exist.

The flaw of Bokuto is that he _loves_ to be relied on. So Writer’s willingness to let him do as he pleased continued this growth of reliance and furthered the rhetoric that she needed fixing in ways that she didn’t think necessary. Again, this would have worked if Writer agreed with him from the start, but she _didn’t_. Bo’s slow rising obsession with Writer would have ended any real romantic relationship they could have had.

And you have to remember that, in the beginning, all Writer gives a shit about is writing. And by the end of it, it’s still her writing that gives her some vague sense of purpose and direction. Not people. Never people. Writer was constructing the anthology around this time, actually almost finishing it by the time the confession and rejection happens, and yet she isn’t inspired by the man actively being a part of her life, but her neighbour who is _far more integral_ in her process of healing than Bo is. If they got together, Bo would have wanted her attention. I don’t know if she would have been willing to give him all of it, _especially_ if she wasn’t addressing her burnout. And that would have been a bigger blow to her as a person because, again, if she couldn’t find it in herself to write, then she would be _nothing_.

Do I think it could have worked? Maybe. All relationships are tentative maybes, regardless of how long a couple has been together. There would’ve been more work between Writer and Bo in making it work – especially because they were at such different points in their lives and demanded vastly contrasting things from each other. Their relationship and story would have been focused on trying to find mutual ground, failing, trying again, and failing. It would have been Writer slowing down enough so that Bo could catch up with her, as opposed to Oikawa naturally finding stride with her and Writer unconsciously matching Oiks’ steps.

Above all else, this story was Oikawa and Writer’s. They need each other more than Bo needs Writer and vice versa.

So no, there was no way in _this_ version of ATAON that it could have worked.

 

**_How do you think Oikawa would react if he found out how Bo acted towards the end of his relationship with Writer-chan, particularly being “selfish with his needs” and essentially forcing himself on her?_ **

He would not be pleased.

Oikawa’s reaction to Bo on the balcony in Chapter 17 was a bit of a projection of his own vulnerability that he saw in Writer. And if he somehow heard about what happened in Osaka, then I think he’d take it as an offense. He’d be disappointed in Bo for acting kind of high and mighty, as if he knew more about Writer than he did, and yet disregarded what the woman may or may not have wanted. And he would have been angry at Writer for being so willing to let him to what he did, because he was slowly starting to see her as an equal or companion in the flaws they had together. Oikawa is very self-sacrificial for things he cares about, for people he considers friends and deeply respects.

It would not have done their friendship any better, and it’s a good thing that Oikawa never found out about it.

Will he ever? We don’t know.

 

**_How many editors did the reader go through before meeting Makki?_ **

5 in total. There were 3 Makki was aware of and 2 he wasn’t.

~~mini story time!!~~

When Writer-chan first submitted to the Gunzo, she had been assigned a liaising editor to suggest changes to her works. This was her first ever editor; a nice man who had been kind enough to show her the basic ropes and distil in her the idea that she had the power to make or break the industry if she wanted. Granted, Writer never believed him. That editor promptly left Kodansha for unknown reasons.

A few months later, the second editor appeared in her life – a man who we know as Hisakawa. He had just been promoted to Head of the Literature Department and couldn’t find a suitable replacement for the previous man. And this, dear friend, is where the cracks of their professional relationship crumble – because Hisakawa was vastly different to Number 1. Writer graduated high school not long after, and after moving to Tokyo was reassigned another editor. No one mentions this partnership; Hisakawa considers the lack of progress Writer had under his care to be his biggest failure. Writer just considers Hisakawa a failure in general

The third was another man, who was somehow more annoying and entitled than Hisakawa had been with her. A man with a similar background to Honda Natsuki, in that he had a long familial history in publishing. His type didn’t fit with her, and Writer requested (read: demanded) another change. That editor still works at Kodansha as the story begins and is, admittedly, disgruntled for not being able to keep her as a client. This is the editor that Writer almost punched in front of the CEO of Kodansha. It is a running joke for the other editors in the Literature Department that neither parties are fond of.

Four and five were both women – a happy change for Writer. The former was around for a month before she, after being unable to convince our protagonist to publish something ASAP, was transferred to the Shoujou Manga Department where she remains to this day. The latter was a little nicer, slightly less demanding, but not as decisive with her advice. The legacy Writer created of having gone through editor after editor did not sit well with her. And then, during a workshop meeting between Number 5 and Writer, Makki had been signed on as an intern and sat in on the meeting.

Writer asked him his opinion about the characterisation and he answered honestly. Years of being friends with a man like Oikawa Tooru taught him not to hold back punches and that assertiveness was what people like this mysterious writer wanted. In the middle of Writer’s third year, Makki graduated early and signed on as a full time editor, replacing his ex-mentor and prompting the woman to finish the final draft of ‘A Moth to Flame’ within a month of their partnership.

 

**_Will we see more of Honda Natsuki?_ **

In the one-shots I have planned? Perhaps. I definitely want to explore the avenue of her and Writer’s reconciliation.

In the other stories that I will post? Who knows. I’m not saying there will be another writer character in one of the upcoming stories, but I’m not denying that possibility either. It’s up in the air – and Natsuki really did grow on me even with her minor appearances.

 

**_Would Oikawa and Writer-chan be a stable and long-term couple even after the story is finished with?_ **

~~I explored this in the epilogue but I feel I should elaborate a little more~~

I think every relationship is a ‘maybe’ in terms of stability. There are factors we as individuals and recipients of love can and cannot control. If anything, I think Oiks and Writer-chan are willing to try, especially because of what they are able to figure out and see in each other. They’re unconventional, and official when the epilogue ends, but that doesn’t dictate longevity. It’s about effort, and from what we’ve seen they’re continuing to try, and that’s all that they really need at this point in their lives.

 

**_DID BO AND THE READER BANG_ **

~~THE ANSWER YOU’RE ALL PROBABLY HERE FOR!!!!~~

I left this really vague for a reason – that being that after the topic is initially raised by Kuroo and Akaashi, it’s never addressed again unless it’s under the POV of Oikawa. And since, in those moments, Oikawa is the one we’re focused on and no one has really given him an answer, that instance needs to be vague as shit. I wanted you to be as confused as he was, and having this mystery about what Bo and Writer’s past really was together meant that Oiks needed to really figure out his feelings.

But, if you want answers…

 

 

 

_I actually never wrote a definitive answer for this._

When I say I had everything planned, I mean I had _everything planned_ – and that includes leaving this as an unanswered question.

~~in hindsight I should have had _something_ prepared to satisfy people, but eh, should’ve would’ve could’ve~~

A part of me says, with all this hindsight and shit, that they did – because logically that would make sense for the sudden awkwardness and neediness in Bo’s disposition.

But another part of me doesn’t think they did. I have this idea that even though he was being selfish, Bo still would’ve been inherently aware of Writer’s boundaries, and if for a moment she felt uncomfortable he would snap out of it and back off. And that, again, would also make for sudden awkwardness and the change in Bo’s character by Osaka.

Either way, it doesn’t really matter since it leads to the same outcome for these two characters. Go wild with your imaginations, my dears.

**_CAN WE HAVE AN OFFICIAL PRINT COPY OF THIS FIC??? I NEED TO DISPLAY THIS MASTERPIECE ON MY BOOKSHELF_ **

~~Included this because it made me laugh~~

Don’t know how the fuck I’d do that, but it’d be a cool idea? Currently I have the entire PDF from AO3 saved on to my phone and that’s the closest thing to a full copy I have to offer you my darling.

 

**_When you say you’re writing stories in the same universe, are they all the same “reader” with Oikawa or different readers with different people? // In every story you write, connected to ATAON, will the reader be always the same character?_ **

Good question – I should have clarified that a little more. As much as I do love Writer-chan’s persona, it will not be the same “reader” across all the stories.

~~So no Bo x Writer-chan when his story comes to pass~~

This is partially because every character has their own development different to what Oikawa and this persona needed, so it doesn’t make sense (to me at least) to recycle her over and over again. Sure, it’d save me time, but that’s not very fun. I also want to explore different types of people, personalities and backgrounds in these so more people can find something/someone they can relate to.

But that doesn’t mean Writer-chan is officially _erased_ from the universe with each new story. Her persona will still be included as a little Eater Egg for loyal readers of ATAON. So, like, anyone who knows Makki knows he’s an editor, and that his writer is ridiculously popular and successful, but _conveniently_ no one ever remembers her name, and no one bothers to figure it out.

 

**_How are you?_ **

Exhausted, but surviving. I’m filled with this weird melancholy for ATAON now that it’s over, and a strange sadness after finishing the Q&A.

But I’m excited again because it’s time for the NEW STORY ANNOUNCEMENTS WOOOOOOH!

~~

So before diving straight in, here’s a bit of commentary on the survey results.

A lot of responses requested another Oikawa story. Which made me laugh way too hard, because I’m 41924% sure I will never write an Oiks fic that tops ATAON. But I'm willing to try  _if_ that's what y'all really want... It may take me a while and it probably won't be as good, but I'll try. And there was a lot of love for a Hero Aca fic which, I will say, I have been thinking about for a while. I dunno if that’ll happen, but I’m not denying the possibility. There were a few other fandoms recommended that I’m eyeing as we speak, but I will confirm that my main priority will by Haikyuu – at least till I have an idea I _really_ want to follow through with.

~~Also like, every sports anime ever got requested – so i wouldn’t be surprised if I somehow became That Sports Anime Fic writer~~

NOW ON TO THE RESULTS

The answers you all gave me are going to dictate what order the future stories of the Readerverse will be posted. Granted, people will change their opinions over time, but that's just a bridge we'll cross in the future. For now, we have a standing and we'll work with what we've got.

Of all the responses gathered, almost 90% voted for the Captains as the group they’d like more content for. This was followed by the Pretty Setter Squad, the Wing Spikers/Aces, Middle Blockers, First Years, Team Moms, and then the extra options that were supplied; things like Second Years, Liberos/Libros etc.

Question 2 was the most important question, considering all the options have something pre-planned. The rank you allocated each character determined how many points they would get. Ranks 1 – 6 warranted a positive number whereas Ranks 7 – 12 warranted a negative number. So a vote in Rank 1, which was the Most Desired, would be worth 6 points whereas a vote in Rank 12, the Least Desired, would be worth -6 points. I tabbed all the votes using this scale to determine the Top 12 ranking.

So then, once I had complete ranking, I added another 6 points if the character was a Captain, 5 if they were a Pretty Setter, 4 if they were a Wing Spiker/Ace, 3 for a Middle Blocker, 2 for a First Year, and then 1 point for the remaining options based off the final standings for Question 1. Every character fit into a max. of 2 categories, so it was a fair point distribution across the board.

But there was another question to this survey – which asked you to list _other_ characters you wanted me to write for. And holy shit! There were some characters who were nominated so frequently that they rivalled the top 3 characters in Question 2! (one of those characters was Oikawa, you guys are all trash for him and like,same) The characters submitted here received an automatic 6 points per nomination, and then they also received the bonus points depending on what group they were in.

Many hours of calculating later, I had the Top 10. 

Without further ado....

 **TENTH -** Kageyama Tobio  
**NINTH -** Tendou Satori  
**EIGHTH-** Miya Osamu  
**SEVENTH -** Tsukishima Kei  
**SIXTH -** Suguwara Koushi  
**FIFTH** \- Ushijima Wakatoshi  
**FOURTH** \- Iwaizumi Hajime

Before the Top 3, I'd also like to give an honourable mention to Oikawa - who actually ranked in the 8th position after the vote. But I mean... We  _just_ finished a 200,000 word story about him - let me live for a bit, babes. Also - as you can see, four of the seven positions were write ins, which is so funny to me because  _how did I forget these characters in my planning stages????_ Also - I love the fact we all collectively love Osamu more than Atsumu, cause that's a constant mood tbh.

Back to the Top 3!

 

 

 **Third Place** goes to....

 

 

 

Akaashi Keiji

 

 

 **Second Place** goes to....

 

 

 

Bokuto Koutarou

 

And **First Place** is awarded to....

 

 

 

KUROO TETSUROU!

 

 

 

Shady Cat Captain won in almost a landslide victory, receiving overwhelming support form people nominating him as their first, second, and third choice over-all. So that means!! The next story you'll see from me on AO3 will focus on none other than the next member of the Captains; Kuroo Tetsurou!

And now, for a sneak peak at the title and blurb...

 

* * *

 

 ** _Ultraviolet Cadmium Blues_ **

'Indulge Yourself' has never been in Kuroo Tetsurou's vocabulary, nor in the mantra he tells himself in daily intervals. There's a time and a place for everything - and that includes his own worldly needs.

'Share the Load' is a foreign concept of (Surname) (Name), one that does not grant her the solace it does for most people. Life is up to her actions, not those from the people who do not know enough.

But there's an art to discovery, and a science behind creation. It's just up to a pair of idiots to figure that out.

OR

Is there a true division between selflessness and reckless abandon?

 

* * *

 

Hopefully that gives you and idea of what you can expect from Kuroo's side of the Readerverse! It'll handle similar themes to ATAON, but will definitely have it's own flair. This story should be ready to start being posted by October or November, depending on how organised I am through the rest of this new university semester.

 

**BUT WAIT, THERE’S MORE!**

 

I’ll also be doing the second place story at the _SAME TIME_! Just for variation, and because  _a lot_ of these stories are a little shorter to do... And because I want to see how stressed I can get with two different stories going on at once!

So who is the secondary story? Why, it's none other than our Precious Owl Baby Boi, Bokuto Koutarou! 

~~ngl I totally thought he'd win out in the vote, but the Kuroo Fans really made their voices heard~~

 So here's the sneak peak for  _his_ story!

 

* * *

 

_**Love and Other Adult Things** _

There are many things in life that your parents don't teach you about the process of Adulthood™.

Taxes.

Rent.

General Responsibility.

Social Etiquette.

Falling in Love.

Bokuto has his fair share of failures and fears. (Name) is just barely staying afloat.

OR

Adulthood his confusing when you've spent your Adolescence winging it.

 

* * *

 

Again, planning should be finalised around October/November, which is _very_ exciting!

 

But that means we're done here with ATAON.

And now… I feel like I should have a speech prepared to end this?

I really don’t know how to do this?

But I guess what I want to say is that this isn’t the end of ATAON? My life has officially been divided into Pre-ATAON and Post-ATAON periods, and I don't think I can look back on to what was a little over 11 months of pure perseverance and attention to this rollercoaster. I’ll do my best to make sure we keep this story alive in one way or another, because if I'm very honest with you all I don't want this to end...  Thank you again for all of the comments, kudos, love, and support you have shown not only the story, but to me as well. When I originally posted the first chapter I was kind of terrified about the reception. I thought no one would read this story and was so ready to give up, but I’m glad I told myself to keep going and that so many of you gave me a chance to tell it. I don’t know what I would have done without this little family that has emerged from something I wrote… Like, I would wake up to emails from AO3 with streams of comments from all of you and it would make my entire week knowing that someone cared as much as I did and really, this story is for you all more than it is for me. And yet here we are, the end of the line. I almost didn't update the last two chapters in order to avoid finishing this, and it kind of hurt to push the publish button on them. But all good things come to an end, and even if we don't share this journey anymore it will always be a fond memory of mine.

So thank you, again, from the bottom of my heart for sticking around and being such a supportive and loving readership. I can't wait to take you on these new adventures and show you new horizons in the world we're all kind of coming to enjoy. Remember, even if this story is over, I'll always come back to it in one way or another, so don't be afraid to keep commenting and interacting while I prepare the next steps in my life.

Thank you again. Love you all. Let's hope I don't fuck up these next few weeks.

Kat <3


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